Dawn of Spring
by arack14
Summary: Show canon mostly, but may end up including some book elements. This started out as a one-shot of my re-imagining of the final scenes of 7x06, but after the Season 7 finale I decide to keep going with it. Now, it's become my continuation of the story into how I envision Season 8. This is my first fic for Game of Thrones. Rated M cuz... it's GoT. Cover image by ertacaltinoz
1. Daenerys I

**My next project: my take on the end of Game of Thrones, or how I envision Season 8. This first chapter is a little one-shot I felt like writing. It's basically my interpretation of the final scenes of Episode 7x06, from Dany's POV. After this chapter, I pick up where the 7x07 left off.**

 **Hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think, and if you want me to keep uploading this.**

* * *

 **DAENERYS I**

The day was bleak, and such cold was in the air that it seemed almost a tangible presence. It was the inescapable presence of winter. Seven hundred feet above the ground, the wind howled mercilessly through the wood and metal beams that made up one of the many watchtower posts atop the Wall. It whipped at her hair and clothes and stung the exposed flesh of her face like a thousand tiny daggers. Sheets of snow cascaded from the cloudy sky. The canopy of her tower provided little shelter from it, as the wind caused the snow to fall almost horizontally, blowing it under the canopy to alight on her coat and skin. Ser Jorah Mormont, the gruff old bear who had been at her side for years, stood there now, shivering despite the many layers of fur he was wearing. The Dragon Queen herself wore only her white coat and simple black gloves, but she felt no outward chill.

None but the chill in her heart.

She gazed out across the lands beyond the Wall, as far north as north could go. She thought perhaps on another day, in another time, she might have admired the view, perhaps even enjoyed it. But today she could not. Because she had seen the threat that lurked among those frozen forests and mountains of ice. She had seen the army of the dead, the endless mass of writhing and chattering skeletons and half-rotted corpses. She had seen the White Walkers. And she had seen her dragon Viserion – one of her three beloved children, her only children – felled from the sky before her very eyes, pierced by a spear of ice wielded by the leader of the Walkers, the one Jon called the Night King.

Thinking of Jon and her slain dragon sent a pang of guilt and sorrow through her heart so intense she nearly gasped aloud. The frigid air was suddenly too thin, and she found herself struggling to capture a breath. _I failed them,_ she thought miserably. _And Viserion paid the price for my stubbornness._

She refused to believe that Jon was dead. The man was as stubborn as her but twice as brave. Dany didn't think he had a dishonorable bone in his body. He had risked so much to help his people, even sailing hundreds of miles south to hold court with a foreign invader who was just as likely to kill him as she was to render aid. He never gave up fighting for his people, never gave up trying to convince her of the true threat from beyond the Wall, but she had never listened until it was too late. She decided it was the least she could do not to give up on him. She owed him that much.

So she kept her vigil atop the Wall since the moment they returned to Eastwatch, until even the extraordinary inner warmth she possessed as the blood of the dragon could no longer keep the cold at bay. Her fingers and toes ached; her coat felt like it was sealed permanently to her body and her face was beginning to grow numb; but still she remained in her perch, scanning the woods below for any sign of movement.

Ser Jorah had tried a few times to convince her to come down. She ignored him. He hadn't attempted to do so for quite some time, instead choosing to remain silent at her side.

For hours and hours she waited and watched, haunted by the mourning cries of Rhaegal and Drogon and the memory of what had happened at the frozen lake. After the strange but touching moment Jon had shared with Drogon, she wanted to believe that her dragons understood her grief for the Northman and shared it as strongly as they did their grief for Viserion. But that was only wishful thinking.

The strength of her despair and longing for the lost King in the North forced her to reconsider her assertion that she was not in love with Jon Snow, and he was not in love with her. But was that really true? Would she be here if it was?

 _I would gladly risk my life to save any of my people, not just Jon_ , she tried to reason with herself, but her assertion rang hollow. Her mind inadvertently flashed back through all of her interactions with him, assessing his mannerisms and expressions for a clue to the truth.

She recalled the way he looked at her in the cave, and on the beach as they said farewell: like she was the most precious thing in the world to him, and it was causing him almost physical pain to leave her. Somehow, though he had never said it outright, she knew that it wasn't just her ethereal beauty that had enraptured him. They were kindred spirits, and he had recognized that almost immediately. Dany had taken longer to realize it, but now that she had, she knew that his feelings for her went beyond simple physical attraction.

Looking back on her previous relationships, she understood that Daario had been little more than a distraction. To him, she had been a prize, a conquest to brag about, and his attraction to her was almost certainly skin-deep, nothing but lust. Even Khal Drogo had not truly loved her. And although she had come to care for the Khal, she realized now that she had not truly loved him either. How could she, when the foundation of their relationship was built upon slavery?

It was different with Jon. The other two had always tried to impress her, to gain her favor with gifts or persuasion. Jon did not. He was one of the most humble men she had ever met. He never bragged. He cared nothing for himself. All he wanted was to help his people, and he had been willing to risk his own life by meeting with Dany in order to do so. The extent of his honor and altruism astounded her more and more every day, and part of the reason it did so was because he never _tried_ to astound her with it. In fact, he made every effort to _hide_ the truth of what he had sacrificed for his people.

No, she was not foolish enough to delude herself any longer. She was the blood of Valyria, the blood of the dragon. She knew who she was.

And she knew she was in love with Jon Snow.

Eventually, Jorah touched her lightly on the shoulder. She started at the unexpected contact. "It's time to go, Your Grace," he said solemnly.

 _No!_ Dany wanted to scream. _I can't give up on him, don't you understand?_ But she remained calm, and all she said was, "A bit longer."

Jorah acquiesced and stepped back once more. After a few more minutes, Dany forced herself to turn away. Her eyes burned, but no tears would fall. She tried to stay strong, to keep herself composed in front of Ser Jorah. _If I look back, I am lost_.

But then, as she took the first step onto the stairs leading from the platform she had manned religiously, a horn blast rang out from the Wall, piercing through the shrieking wind. "A rider approaches!" someone shouted out.

Dany's heart leapt into her throat. Could it be possible? Did she dare to hope? She spun and bounded back to the edge of the watchtower. Her nervous hands gripped the railing tightly, causing it to groan in protest. She heard her blood pulsing wildly in her ears as her eyes desperately searched the ground below.

A black shape staggered from the treeline, with what appeared to be a bundle of black furs on its back. Dany squinted, her breath hitching at the discovery. _A horse._ The horse stumbled towards the gate, struggling under the weight of the burden on its back. A dozen men dashed out from the gate to meet it. The horse collapsed as they reached it, and the men took the mound of furs into their arms. She caught a flash of something pale that could only be flesh. _Jon_.

"No," she whispered. She turned and began to make her way down the stairs that led to the ground level where the gate was. The wood was slick with snow and ice, but she raced down them as quickly as she possibly could. She wanted, no, she _needed_ to know Jon was alive.

"Be careful, khaleesi," Jorah warned, but she ignored him. He lagged behind, unable to match her frantic pace, until Dany lost sight of him entirely. She wasn't unduly troubled by this. _He will find me at the bottom._

After what seemed like an eternity, she finally reached the ground. She was just in time to see the men of the Night's Watch carrying Jon through the gate, dragging the body of the dead horse behind them. Ser Davos met her there. He looked more concerned than Dany had ever seen him, and when he spoke, his accent was thicker than usual. "We need to get him warmed up," he said to the men carrying the King, rushing forward to help them. "Now!"

Dany tried to compose herself and take control of the situation. "Take him to my ship," she commanded.

The crows looked at her and hesitated. "Your Grace…"

"This is no time to argue!" she snapped. "The weather is unrelenting, and you have no healers here. We must return to Dragonstone immediately to ensure that he makes a full recovery." Still the men hesitated. "NOW!" she roared, allowing forth some of the fury of the dragon within her. This time, the men scrambled to obey her, carrying Jon down to the docks where her ship, the _Silver Queen_ , was moored.

Jorah finally reached her. His breathing was heavy, but there was no sweat on his brow; the gelid air saw to that. He trailed silently behind Dany, voicing no displeasure or beratement of her, as she followed the men of the Night's Watch to the _Silver Queen_.

Dany, Davos, and Jorah took Jon from the other men so that they could depart immediately. As soon as they were on board, Dany commanded the captain set sail.

Jon was not a large man, but his garments were soaked with half-frozen and icy-cold water. The three of them struggled to bear him on their own, but they managed to lug him down to his cabin and dump him on the bed.

The two knights straightaway set to work stripping Jon of his sopping clothes. Perhaps it was a foolish notion after all that had happened, but Dany wished to respect Jon's modesty, so she took the time to change from her now-soaked white winter coat and back into her more comfortable black dress. She fastened her blood-red scarf over her shoulder with her silver three-headed dragon brooch and returned to Jon's cabin.

When she arrived, Jon had been stripped to his smallclothes and tucked beneath the warm furs of his bed. As Jorah and Davos lugged his ruined clothing out of the room and shut the door behind them, Dany's eyes lighted on Jon's bare chest. He was lithe but muscular, and despite herself, she felt her heartbeat quicken. But it wasn't his physique that drew her gaze.

Jon's chest was littered with scars. She counted at least half a dozen of them, huge gashes in his flesh and muscle, from his abdomen to his torso. They looked less like scars and more like fresh wounds, raw and bloody. The largest one of all was a half-moon-shaped wound nearly four inches in length, directly above his heart.

Her breath caught in her throat. Davos' words from their first meeting echoed in her head. _He took a knife in the heart for his people, he gave his own l-_ Jon had cut him off before he finished, but now Dany completed the sentence in her head. _He gave his own life for his people._

Apparently it wasn't some kind of metaphor as she had first thought. The evidence was plain as day before her eyes, yet still she had trouble believing it. How did he survive wounds such as these? How could he have been standing before her all these weeks if he was dead? These were no insignificant scratches, that much was clear, but until Jon woke, she had far more questions than she did answers.

She didn't think it would have been possible, but she found her admiration for the man in front of her growing exponentially. Here was visible, tangible proof of the lengths he was willing to go to for his people, the sacrifices he was willing to make for those he cared about. Was there no end to Jon Snow's selflessness?

Dany's heart clenched as she beheld him, and tears pricked at her eyes once more. Remorse threatened to overwhelm her. If she had trusted him from the start, Jon would not be lying before her on the brink of death. Viserion would not have perished.

Before her mind comprehended what she was doing, her legs were moving towards his bed. She sat on the furs next to Jon and reached out a hand to trace the crescent-like scar on his breast with her finger. His skin was impossibly cold, and she almost recoiled in shock. But she forced herself to endure it, and flattened her palm over the scar. She could feel his heart beating; it was weak but present, silently reassuring her that he would live. He would be alright. She breathed a sigh of relief. Jon shuddered in his sleep, mumbling incoherently.

Once again, she could barely control the rise of emotions that emerged from within her. She swallowed them down with effort, and stared imploringly at Jon's face, then the steady rise and fall of his chest. _Wake soon, Jon Snow. For me._

* * *

They were halfway to Dragonstone when Jon finally woke.

Dany was at his side when he did, which was no surprise, since she had remained there through most of the journey thus far. His eyes blinked open, blearily taking stock of his surroundings.

When they landed on Dany, unimaginable sorrow and guilt entered his stormy grey gaze. No, unimaginable was the wrong word. She _could_ imagine it; she knew she would see exactly the same thing if she were to look in a mirror.

"I'm sorry." Jon spoke softly, his voice hoarse and weak from disuse. "I'm so sorry."

She could hear the emotion in his voice, hear the way it colored his words. She shook her head, desperately trying to hold back the flood of tears that was still trying to break through. She hoped he wouldn't continue. She didn't think she could handle any more of his heartfelt apologies.

Jon reached up and took her hand, slowly stroking it with his thumb. "I wish I could take it back," he whispered. "I wish we'd never gone."

Dany was grateful for his attempt to comfort her, and after a lengthy internal struggle, she finally gained some semblance of control of her emotions. It was taking all of her focus not to grip his hand like it was a lifeline, the last lifeline she had left. Instead, she slipped her hand out of his grasp and back into her lap, and shook her head again. "I don't," she said. "If we hadn't gone, I wouldn't have seen. You have to see it know." She smiled sadly, but it was ironic and self-deprecating, bereft of any humor. "Now I know."

Rhaegal's screeches drifted through the cabin window, and Dany was hit with a fresh wave of grief for Viserion. "The dragons are my children," she said, her voice wavering. "They're the only children I'll ever have. Do you understand?" She needed him to understand. She wanted nothing more than to take him into her bed, to express how deeply she had come to care for him in the most intimate way possible. She suspected now that he felt the same way of her, but she wasn't certain. Either way, he deserved to know that she could not give him any heirs should he choose to lie with her. She would not deceive him anymore.

Jon's voice died in his throat. Instead he nodded, his eyes downcast.

But that was not the only thing she needed to tell him. "We are going to destroy the Night King and his army," she declared fiercely. Her voice wavered no longer, fortified by the strength of her conviction, her desire for vengeance for her lost child. "And we'll do it together." She looked him in the eyes, his dark brown orbs that were slowly widening as he listened to her speak. "You have my word."

For a moment, Jon didn't know what to say. His mouth opened and closed a few times; then gratitude spread over his face, and he nodded. "Thank you, Dany," he said.

"'Dany'?" Caught off-guard at his use of her nickname, she faltered. "I can't remember who was the last person to call me that." She was thrown back in time to Vaes Dothrak, to the day her cruel brother Viserys had received the golden crown Drogo promised him. "Was it my brother?" She grimaced. "Mmm.. not the kind of company you want to keep."

Jon looked suitably embarrassed. "Alright," he agreed. "Not Dany." Then a spark of steely determination entered his gaze, and he took a deep breath. "How about 'my Queen'?"

Dany stared at him in disbelief. It couldn't be possible. Had she misheard him? His next words proved she had not.

"I'd, uh, bend the knee, but…" He half-smiled and gestured towards his bedridden body, indicating his physical inability to do so.

Dany was speechless. She had longed for this moment, longed for the day he would finally pledge himself to fight for her. So why was the taste of her victory so bitter in her mouth? "What about those who swore allegiance to you?" she asked hesitantly.

"They'll all come to see you for what you are," he responded, his voice full to bursting with confidence. He gazed at her with the most loving and trusting expression on his face, she nearly broke down right there in front of him.

She gasped softly, her eyebrows arching, and in a split second, she made a decision. She slipped her hand back down into Jon's, lacing their fingers together and rubbing calming circles on each other with their thumbs. They both stared at their intertwined hands, then she raised her eyes back to his. "I hope I deserve it," she whispered, humbled beyond belief.

"You do," he said, and smiled at her.

It seemed there really was no end to Jon Snow's selflessness.

For a while they remained there, taking comfort in each other's company. Neither spoke, not wishing to disturb the rare moment of peace they had found. After what they'd experienced north of the Wall together, Dany felt like they now shared an inexplicable bond. She had never felt so close to someone before, man or woman, and though the depth of her love for him frightened her, she refused to allow her trepidation to influence her.

Eventually, Dany's gaze found its way back to his scars once more. He caught her looking, and sighed. Dany noticed his reaction, and nodded towards the scars. "You told me Ser Davos got carried away, if I recall," she said dryly. "I assumed it was a figure of speech… clearly, it was not."

He shifted uncomfortably. "No, Your Grace. It wasn't."

Dany frowned. "What happened to you?" she asked quietly.

Jon sighed again. "What do you know of the wildlings?"

"Very little," she admitted.

"The wildlings – the Free Folk – have been in conflict with the Night's Watch for centuries," he told her. "They learned how to survive beyond the Wall, and built towns and shelters with materials they took from settlements they raided on our side. The Night's Watch always saw them as little more than savages, and usually both sides would kill each other on sight."

"The first time I went north of the Wall," he continued. "I spent time with Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall, and the Free Folk who followed him. I lived with them, learned to appreciate the roughness of their culture." His distant gaze suddenly darkened, dozens of emotions swirling within them. Dany knew something else had happened to him there, something he wasn't telling her. "After a while, I came to understand the truth. They're no different than we are; they were just born on the wrong side of the Wall. I was eventually elected Lord Commander, and I knew that if we were going to survive the Long Night, if we wanted to have any chance of defeating the Night King, we needed to put our differences aside and work together."

"I led a mission to Hardhome, a town north of the Wall. The remnants of the Free Folk who followed Mance had fled there after their army was routed by Stannis Baratheon. While I was there, negotiating with the wildlings, the Night King attacked the village, with three other White Walkers and thousands of his undead troops."

A shiver ran down Dany's spine, and she unconsciously clutched his hand tighter.

"I did the only thing I could: I evacuated as many of them as I could to the safety of our ships and returned to Castle Black." He rubbed his forehead. "My sworn brothers didn't like that too much. They saw me as a traitor for bringing the wildlings south of the Wall. So one night, some of them lured me into a courtyard and murdered me."

Dany inhaled sharply. "How… how are you…?"

"A red priestess named Melisandre," he explained. "She brought me back. I don't know how, or why, but she did."

"Melisandre…" She considered the name for a few seconds before realization struck her. "I was visited by a red priestess of that name shortly after I arrived at Dragonstone."

Jon's brows furrowed in confusion. "At Dragonstone? What was she doing there?"

"She advised me to summon you to stand before me," said Dany. "She reminded me of the prophecy of Azor Ahai, of the Prince who was Promised, and told me that she believed we both had a role to play in its fulfillment. Tyrion agreed with her advice."

Jon raised an eyebrow, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "He spoke in my favor?"

Dany nodded. "Of course. He said he had only traveled with you for a short time, but that you were a good man and he trusted you. Both of them seemed adamant that you were someone I ought to meet. I decided it was the least I could do to present the opportunity."

"Then I am glad I chose to sail south," Jon said.

She squeezed his hand and smiled affectionately down at him. "As am I." As she was examining his face, tracing every contour, she noticed the bags under his eyes and the weary set of his jaw. "You should get some rest," she said, withdrawing her hand from his and patting him gently on the leg.

He nodded and closed his eyes, and within a few minutes, she saw his breathing slow and knew he was asleep. She allowed her gaze to linger on him a bit longer, then stood without another word and left the cabin.


	2. Jon I

**Time skip to just after the Season 7 finale.**

* * *

 **JON I**

The rhythmic back-and-forth swaying of the ship stirred Jon awake.

For a moment, he was disoriented. He was underneath the furs of an unfamiliar bed, naked as his nameday, and his mind was still sluggish with sleep. The bed was unusually warm, and there was an unknown weight on his chest. He soon realized this was because he was not the bed's only occupant. Daenerys Targaryen lay beside him, sound asleep and naked as well, a blissfully peaceful expression on her immaculate face. She was curled against his torso, her head – with her stunning golden-white tresses – and one of her hands resting on his chest.

It was only then that Jon recalled the events of the previous night. He remembered his hesitance as he stood in front of her cabin door, before finally steeling his resolve and knocking. He remembered the look on her face as she invited him in, the unconscious acceleration of his heartbeat. He remembered the passion they shared that night, as they both gave into the urges they'd felt for each other for so long. But most of all, he remembered the stare of love and adoration Daenerys had given him as they fell asleep together afterwards, their bodies a tangled mass of limbs, impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

He would never forget that stare.

Wide awake now, Jon knew he would not be able to return to sleep. He sat up slowly, careful not to disturb the Queen, and climbed out of the bed. He dressed quickly and quietly in his Northern outfit, the boiled leather armor over a black tunic and breeches. His fur cloak was back in his own quarters, but he was loath to return there after sharing the night with Daenerys. Instead he stepped out of her chamber and ascended the steps to the main deck.

The sun had not yet risen. Even though the winter days were short and growing shorter, making it difficult to judge the hour, Jon's Northern intuition told him it was still very early in the morning. Most members of the crew were still asleep, but there were a few here and there who nodded to Jon in acknowledgement as they passed him. He wondered if they knew what had transpired the previous night, but their expressions were devoid of any accusation or anger, which led him to assume they did not.

He doubted they would be so respectful towards him if they knew he had slept with the Queen.

Sighing to himself, Jon made his way toward the prow and stood at the railing, staring off into the gloom. The sky was beginning to lighten, signaling the end of the pre-dawn hours, but the clouds were many, covering everything in a dreary blanket of grey. The sea churned beneath them as the _Silver Queen_ cleaved through each wave she met.

It had been moderately warm in King's Landing, at least by his standards, with little more than a hint of a chill in the air. But with every mile they traveled north, the temperature dropped lower and lower. They remained close to the coast as they sailed, and the air was frigid. Jon's breath crystallized in front of his face, before being whisked away by the winds of winter.

They were expected to arrive at White Harbor, the seat of House Manderly, within a couple of weeks, where they would disembark and then ride the rest of the way to Winterfell on horseback. He was eager to see his home again, and his family, but a part of him dreaded it as well.

The Northern lords had named him King in the North, united in their refusal to accept a Southern ruler as their own. They had put their trust in him to lead them because they believed in his conviction, and his ability to fulfill it. And how had he repaid them? He had bent the knee to that Southern ruler… but even worse, he had fallen in love with her. They were certainly not going to be happy about that.

Last night, he had known what he wanted to do was wrong the moment he decided to knock on her door. But he couldn't help it. He felt how he felt about her, and it was far too late to change that now.

A few solitary snowflakes drifted listlessly down from above. _Winter is coming_. The words of House Stark; the words Jon's father, Ned Stark, had always repeated. _Not anymore_ , Jon thought grimly. _Winter is here_.

Soft footsteps on the wood behind him alerted him to someone approaching him. He wondered if it was a crewman or someone more likely to engage him in conversation, like one of the Queen's advisers that was traveling with them or Ser Davos. He wasn't particularly in the mood for conversation at the moment. He had assumed that, besides the crew, he was the only one who would voluntarily be awake at this early hour of the morning, but perhaps he was wrong.

He was. Tyrion Lannister appeared by his side at the rail, barely reaching above the edge of the wood. The dwarf was clad in his typical black doublet and pants; the metal badge that marked him as Hand of the Queen gleamed dully on his breast. He wasted no time on pleasantries.

"You slept with her."

It wasn't a question. His tone was icy as the weather; it sounded more like an accusation to Jon.

His initial reaction was one of anger. What right did Tyrion have to question his personal actions? Who was he to tell Jon who he could and couldn't fall into bed with? Jon calmed himself with effort, maintaining a stoic exterior. He then wondered how the dwarf knew he had been with Daenerys last night. It was possible he didn't even know for sure.

"What makes you think that?" Jon asked calmly.

Tyrion turned and fixed him with a withering glance. "Don't bother. I saw you enter her chambers last night." Of course, it was also possible he _did_ know for sure. "I'm no fool. I've not been oblivious to the looks you two have been giving each other lately."

"Alright then. Yes, we slept together. Do you have a problem with that?"

"Oh, I wouldn't limit myself to just one. Would you like me to list them for you?"

Jon sighed. His anger faded completely with the dwarf's typical blunt response. "There's no need," he said. "I can assure you, I am fully aware of the consequences of my actions."

"Are you?"

"I am." Jon silenced him with a look. "The Northern lords will have already learned of my decision to bend the knee, and I know they wouldn't have taken it well. They will like it even less when they learn some of the reasons why. They may even withdraw their support."

"You know as well as I do – better, in fact – that we need every single able fighter we have if we want to have any chance of defeating the army of the dead," said Tyrion. "We need the North." He observed Jon for his reaction as he offered a suggestion. "Perhaps it would be best if you were to hide the full extent of your… relationship with our Queen for the duration of our stay in Winterfell."

Jon turned sharply. "You want me to lie to my people."

"I wouldn't call it lying so much as –"

"Have you so easily forgotten what I said at the Dragonpit?" Jon asked harshly. "I do my best to remain true to my word. I didn't hide the truth from your sister; I will not hide it from my own people. I refuse to mislead them like that, nor will I allow Dany to think I am ashamed of being with her. The lords will either accept it or they won't."

Tyrion quirked an eyebrow. "'Dany'?"

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it without responding. A faint flush crept across his face, warming his frozen cheeks. He hadn't meant for that to slip out, especially considering the Queen didn't even want him to call her that.

The dwarf sighed. "I assumed as much. You love her, don't you?"

Jon didn't think there was any use denying it. "I doubt you need to ask me that at this point."

"Good point." He studied Jon closely for a moment. "You know, the Northmen have great respect for you. They didn't choose you as their King for nothing. It's possible they may decide to follow you anyway, even despite the fact that you bent the knee… and bedded her," he added.

"Some, perhaps… but not enough," Jon answered, deliberately ignoring the dwarf's last comment. "They're too proud. I fear that as many warriors as I secured by pledging myself to Daenerys, I may have lost just as many if the North decides not to aid us."

"I imagine they will, considering their survival depends on it. But I suppose we shall just have to wait and see."

"Indeed."

He turned to depart, but paused and glanced back over his shoulder. "I hope it was worth it," he said softly. Then he was gone.

Left alone with his thoughts once more, Jon exhaled a frustrated sigh. He struggled to keep his emotions under control, but it was a losing battle.

 _Was it worth it?_

He had asked himself that question numerous times as he stood in the hallway outside Daenerys' cabin the previous night, which was one reason why Tyrion's parting comment bothered him more than he was willing to admit. The other reason was that he had the impression that Tyrion thought Jon and Daenerys' intimacy last night had only been a one-time tryst that held no meaning other than mutual pleasure, something that would likely never be repeated.

But that was the entire problem; it was far, far more than that. Jon loved her, and she loved him. He knew that now for certain, and had accepted it in his heart and in his mind.

When he first felt something stirring in him for the Dragon Queen, he worried that he was in some way betraying Ygritte's memory by falling in love with another woman. It took a conversation with the brutally honest and unwaveringly loyal Ser Davos for him to realize that was unreasonable. Ygritte was dead and gone, and denying himself the opportunity to love another was irrational. The red-headed wildling girl would have wanted him to be happy. And he was certain that he wasn't the only man that Daenerys had ever loved.

Besides, his affection for Ygritte was as a candle before the raging inferno of the passion he shared with Daenerys. They had formed a special bond through their mutual sacrifices and experiences. Because of everything they had seen and done together, Jon's feelings for her were stronger than any emotion he'd felt towards anyone else.

When he had watched the cream-and-gold dragon Viserion fall lifeless from the sky, he had experienced such a surge of anger towards the Night King that it momentarily overwhelmed any rational thought. At that moment, he had wanted nothing more than to make the Night King suffer for the pain he caused Daenerys. Not for himself; for _her_. The strength and intensity of his conviction astonished and frightened him.

 _Was it worth it?_

Until he found himself outside her cabin door last night, he wrestled with himself, trying to convince himself that it wasn't; that taking their relationship to the next step would only cause more problems in the long run. He had stood rooted outside her chambers for an interminable amount of time, perhaps hours, before he came to acknowledge the truth.

The truth was that it didn't matter whether it was worth it or not. It didn't matter what happened as a result of it. He was in love with her. He would kill for her, even die for her without a second thought. He couldn't change his feelings even if he wanted to do so.

He knew the lords of the North would not be happy with some of his decisions of late. He thought back to the cave on Dragonstone, when the Queen had implored him to bend the knee in order to save his people.

" _My people won't accept a Southern ruler," he had argued. "Not after everything they've suffered."_

" _They will if their King does," she had responded._

He hoped that were true, but he wasn't so certain. The Northmen were proud, quick to anger and slow to forget. Their outrage and pain over the deaths of Brandon and Rickard Stark at the hands of the Mad King were still raw, and as a result, they had little love for Targaryens. He was understandably apprehensive about their reactions to his relationship with the Queen.

But at the same time, he wasn't. It was strange. His newly inflamed and consummated love for Daenerys had filled him with warmth and courage. He felt more powerful than he ever had before, like he could take on the Night King himself. What significance was the disapproval of the Northern lords when compared to Daenerys' love? As long as they were together, he felt like he could fearlessly face anything. And that filled him with hope that the Northmen would trust his judgement well enough to accept that he had fallen for the Dragon Queen, and her for him. They would surely realize she was nothing like her father.

If not… well, they would deal with that issue when it arose.

When the sun was just cresting the horizon, Jon's ears once again caught the sound of approaching footsteps behind him. He couldn't explain how, but this time, he knew exactly who it was. "Your Grace," he greeted, without turning around. He was slightly nervous about how she would treat him now that they had slept together, and the grip of his hand on the ship's rail stiffened almost imperceptibly.

Then it was covered gently by another. He could feel an intense but comforting warmth even through both of their black leather gloves, and he knew his assumption was correct. He turned his head, and found himself staring into the deep violet eyes of the woman he'd come to love. She was smiling at him, but he detected the same uncertainty in her expression that he knew she would find in his.

"There's no one around to hear us, Jon," she said. "You don't need to be so formal."

Jon awkwardly shuffled his feet. "I know," he said. "I just… I'd rather not fall into any bad habits."

Daenerys raised an eyebrow. "Is that what I am to you? A bad habit?" Her tone was teasing, but there was a slight undercurrent of hurt as well.

That told Jon all he needed to know about how she felt about the previous night. He turned his body the rest of the way and shifted his hands from the railing to tenderly grasp both of hers. He stared straight into her eyes with his usual solemn intensity and said firmly, "No. Never."

She smiled, a true, radiant smile now, devoid of any of the doubt that had subverted her earlier. "Good. No more 'Your Grace,' or 'my Queen,' then. Not when it's just the two of us, at least." She paused, as if conflicted. Then she said, "When it's just you and me… it's Dany."

He blinked, momentarily taken aback. "But… you said –"

Daenerys – no, _Dany_ – removed her right hand from his grip and placed it on the side of his cheek. He broke off and leaned into her touch, not breaking eye contact. "I know what I said," she acknowledged. "When you called me that the first time… I'll admit, it caught me by surprise. It roused memories I didn't want to deal with at the time. My grief for Viserion was still too near." Her voice softened. "But Viserys has been gone for years, and I will not allow the shadow of the snake he was to linger over me anymore. It's time for me to move on. I love you, Jon Snow, more than anyone else in this world. I think at the very least I can allow you to call me Dany."

Still stunned, Jon struggled for a moment to come up with a response. Finally, he decided to test out the nickname for himself, now that he had her blessing to make use of it. "Dany…"

She shivered, but he didn't think it was from the cold. She moved the hand on his cheek to the back of his head and pulled him down for a short but passionate kiss. When they broke apart, she rested her forehead against his. "Besides," she whispered. "I find I rather like the way it sounds when it falls from your lips."

He allowed a rare, full smile to adorn his face, and kissed her again. Then he recalled Tyrion's words spoken to him mere hours ago, and a troubled look passed across his face. It didn't escape Dany's perception.

"What is it?" she asked him. "What's wrong?"

He sighed, his signature brooding look returning to his brow. "I talked with Tyrion earlier," he told her. "He knows about us."

"And this bothers you."

"He warned me against being with you. He said it would only cause more problems with the Northmen. And since I'd already been thinking along those lines… yes, it bothers me." When Dany didn't respond for several seconds, he frowned. "You don't seem bothered."

She shook her head. "Tyrion is my Hand, and a close friend," she said. "I know he has my best interests at heart, but ultimately, any choice I make is entirely my own. I understand his concerns, and yours, but I _chose_ you, Jon." She took a deep breath. "I'm afraid I am hopelessly in love with you, Jon Snow," she murmured. "And there is nothing that you, or my advisors, or any Northern lords can say that will change that."

Her affectionate words moved him, soothing him and washing away his fears and doubts. He bent down and kissed her again, engulfing her soft, beautiful lips with his own. "And I love you as well, Daenerys Targaryen," he breathed. "My Queen… my Dany."

Someone cleared their throat. The two lovers turned, Jon blushing slightly. Dany was unperturbed at the interruption. Missandei, the Queen's friend and handmaiden, stood in front of them, looking slightly uncomfortable but trying to suppress a teasing smirk. "Lord Tyrion wishes to speak with you, Your Grace," she said. "He's waiting for you in the war room." She sent a meaningful look to Jon. "Both of you." Then she inclined her head and departed.

Jon and Dany glanced at each other, and he sighed. "I suppose it was going to happen sooner or later," he said, resigned. "Let's go see what he wants… though I suspect I know already." Together, they headed back belowdecks.


	3. Tyrion I

**TYRION I**

After his discussion with Jon, Tyrion returned to his cabin. He was unsurprised to find one of the chairs at his table occupied by another member of the Queen's circle of advisors.

"How did he take it?" asked Lord Varys. His long, flowing purple-and-black robe pooled on the floor around the legs of his chair, and the bald dome of his head gave a muted reflection of the dim candlelight. An expression of casual curiosity was etched on his face.

Giving no answer, the dwarf strode over to his table and hefted a flagon of wine, quickly pouring himself a goblet. He sipped carefully. "About as well as I expected," he said at last. "Better, honestly. I may have been too harsh on him. But he seemed to be aware of the effect that their actions would have on the completion of our goals."

"And what effect would that be?"

"That the Northerners will be loath to accept his decision to bend the knee and even more so his relationship with her, and that it would be better for everyone if they were to put aside their feelings. Fewer complications and distractions will help us defeat the army of the dead quicker, and then we can move on to the war against my sister." When Varys didn't respond, Tyrion quirked an eyebrow and took another draught of his wine. "You don't agree?"

Varys tilted his head. "I see no reason to discourage their relationship."

"You don't." Tyrion's response was dry, skeptical.

"I do not. You said it yourself, my Lord Hand: the Northerners will have already learned of his oath of fealty to the Queen, and they will not be happy about it. What difference does it make to them if he beds her or not? It may even increase their willingness to accept her, when they witness the trust between them and the affection that their King – or Warden – has for her."

The dwarf half stepped, half hopped into a sitting position on his bed, continuing to sip intermittently from his cup. "They are superstitious folk, the Northerners," he said. "I wouldn't put it past them to think she somehow bewitched or seduced him so he would bend the knee. _That_ would certainly not increase their willingness to accept her."

Varys inclined his head in concession. His chair creaked in protest as he relaxed into a more comfortable position. "You and I both know the Dragon Queen can be… stubborn when she wishes to be," he said. Tyrion grunted in affirmation. "She listens to our counsel, but she does not always heed it; not when she is convinced that what she is doing is right. That rather unfortunate incident with the Tarly men is proof enough of that."

Tyrion winced at the reminder of his failure. The screams of Lord Randyll and his son Dickon as they burned alive resounded in his ears.

Varys continued on, either oblivious or indifferent to the Imp's discomfort. "What makes you think that this would be any different? It is clear the two harbor an inordinate amount of affection for each other. Do you think she would follow our advice if our advice was to cease loving the man she has fallen for?"

He didn't want to admit it, but Tyrion knew in his heart that she wouldn't. _Just as Jon Snow didn't_ , he thought glumly. _But at least his sense of honor compelled him to at least consider my advice. They are both far too headstrong for their own good_. Still, he didn't wish to give up his argument yet. "Perhaps not, but it would still be sound advice," he insisted. "Neither Snow nor our Queen has seen much of the world, not truly. Love during war is dangerous, more dangerous than either of them realize. What did Daenerys do when she found out that he was in danger beyond the Wall?"

Varys was silent.

"She risked everything to save him," Tyrion supplied, in answer to his own question. "She risked her life, she risked her dragons' lives, she risked her entire cause to fly north for him. She left despite my most desperate urgings otherwise. And what happened? Jon Snow still nearly died, and she lost one of her dragons. Her affection for him was already clouding her judgement then, and that was even before she bedded him. How can she be an effective ruler if her emotions betray her wits?"

"Your argument is sound, my friend," said the Spider. He folded his hands in his lap. "But there is a simple answer to these problems that you are most uncharacteristically failing to consider."

"And what is this grand solution, then?"

"Marriage," Varys said simply.

Tyrion nearly choked on his next sip of wine. He coughed and spluttered for a few moments before regaining his voice. But even once he had the physical ability to speak, he found himself lost for words – a situation to which the dwarf was entirely unaccustomed. Finally, he managed to stammer out, "I'm sorry?"

"You say the Queen's love for Jon Snow is clouding her judgement, that it is a distraction. I say that asking her to forget or ignore her feelings for a man she quite clearly adores would be far worse of a distraction. And the chance that she would even be willing to attempt to do so at our request is very low."

"Why fight the inevitable?" Varys continued. "Embrace it. Instead of pushing them apart, bind them closer together. A marriage alliance between the Dragon Queen and the Warden of the North would be a powerful one indeed. I doubt anyone could defeat their combined forces, especially in the face of their dedication to each other. There is an old saying I heard once: 'Being loved deeply by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.' I cannot vouch for such things myself, but from a purely observational standpoint, I know this to be true. Imagine the strength and courage of the White Wolf and the Last Dragon if they were united in each other."

Tyrion had to admit, it was a formidable image. He rather liked the idea of two of the most powerful people in the world united in marriage, under the noble cause of destroying his murderous sister. And yet… "The Northern lords would still never accept the marriage of their King to a Targaryen," he argued.

Varys shrugged. "Their distrust of her is based solely on the crimes of the Mad King. If she can convince them that she is nothing like her father..."

"And how would you suggest going about that?"

"It's quite simple, really. She helps them defeat the White Walkers, and they help her defeat Cersei. As part of her marriage to Jon Snow, she can swear to grant the North the independence they have always desired, once the wars are over. Such a declaration would go a long way in convincing the lords of the North she is trustworthy, and that she will fully support them."

"You believe she would agree to do that? To willingly give up her right to one of the Seven Kingdoms?" Tyrion still had his doubts, but he could see that Varys's points were valid. It was a gamble, of course, but if it paid off, it would be extremely beneficial to everyone.

"She is in love with him," said Varys. "I would imagine she would grant him nearly anything he asks of her. If he asks on behalf of the North for her to let his people live in peace and govern themselves after the war, I cannot imagine she would refuse him. But if she does, then at the very least, Snow would be her King. They say the North would never accept a Southern ruler… but I suspect it would be easy for them to do so if a Northerner of their own – someone they trust and respect – were to rule at her side as King of Westeros."

 _You are probably correct, my bald friend_. "Perhaps I should apologize to Jon Snow, then, and speak with him and the queen," Tyrion said. He raised his now-empty goblet towards his fellow advisor. "To successful military alliances." He chuckled at his own joke, though he knew Varys didn't understand it.

"It is rather poetic, I suppose," the Spider mused, a rare sincere smile gracing his face. "It was the love of a dragon and a wolf that fractured the realm into pieces decades ago. Perhaps it was fate that the love of a dragon and a wolf should be the force to bring unity once more."

Tyrion shrugged and hopped down from the bed, wobbling slightly from drink. "I don't put much stock in fate," he confessed. "But the idea does have a certain appeal to it." As Varys moved to exit the cabin, Tyrion called, "Please inform Missandei that I would like to speak with Snow and the Queen in the ship's war room, if they aren't busy."

Varys bowed and took his leave.

The Imp sauntered over to his table and prepared to serve himself another goblet of wine to accompany him to his meeting with the Queen and the bastard of Winterfell. After a moment of deliberation, he grabbed the whole flagon instead.

* * *

Tyrion was seated at the map table (enjoying his alcohol and contemplating how best to discuss the upcoming topic) when Daenerys and Jon Snow entered the room. The Queen wore a black dress lined with white fur and secured with her silver three-headed dragon brooch and chain. She carried herself proudly, her braided silver hair flowing down her back. Beside her walked Jon Snow, dressed in what Tyrion thought was the only outfit he ever saw him wear: black leather armor and thick cloth pants. He wore his jet-black hair pulled back, a look of quiet determination in his dark, intense eyes.

Daenerys seated herself at the head of the table. Jon sat at her right hand, directly across from Tyrion.

"You wished to speak with us?" Daenerys questioned.

"I did." Tyrion glanced at Jon. "To begin with, I'm sorry if I offended you earlier, my Lord. It's my job to offer advice, and I was simply trying to do so."

Jon nodded in acceptance.

"Now, as much as I usually enjoy mincing words, I'm not going to waste any time with you." The dwarf looked now to Daenerys. "When you left Daario in Meereen, you said that you might need to enter into another political marriage to secure an alliance in Westeros. I think it is time we consider that option."

The Queen's striking purple eyes turned cold. "Do you now?" she said, her voice hard. "I wasn't aware there were any more alliances I needed to secure. Who is it, then, that you think I should marry?"

Tyrion met her gaze and caustic tone unflinchingly, allowing a smirk to creep across his face. Wordlessly, he nodded his head towards Jon.

He had to struggle not to laugh when comprehension dawned on both of them. They glanced at each other, then Jon faced Tyrion. His brow was furrowed in confusion. "A few hours ago, you were warning me against pursuing anything further with her," Jon said. "Now you think we should marry?"

"It's a delicate situation, admittedly," Tyrion conceded. "And I can't say I didn't mainly consider the negatives at first. But I had a discussion with Lord Varys, and he brought to my attention that there were, in fact, many benefits I had failed to see."

"Such as?" Daenerys asked. Her voice was decidedly less aggressive. To the contrary; to Tyrion, she seemed to be fighting to contain her intrigue in the proposal.

"You love him, and he loves you. As Varys pointed out to me, you both are very stubborn by nature. Neither I nor the Spider are foolish enough to believe that either of you would listen to us if we advised against a relationship, so we decided it would be pointless to try to fight it. Instead, we can make the most of it."

"A marriage between the two of you makes everyone happy. The Northerners will not have to learn to accept or obey a Southern ruler because they will have one of their own serving as King beside her. You can install one of your half-siblings as Warden of the North or, if that doesn't satisfy the lords, you could even grant the North its independence. Jon can continue to serve as King in the North, either from Winterfell or King's Landing, or he can abdicate his position and help them choose a new King in the North. It gives us a myriad of viable options. And of course, the two of you would be happy." This time, he couldn't hold back the chuckle. "Either way, everyone wins."

Jon and Daenerys sat in stunned silence. Tyrion watched them closely, judging their reaction for any hint of their decision.

Eventually, Jon spoke. "I am not opposed to the idea," he said carefully, keeping his voice level, but the satisfaction in his eyes betrayed his true feelings. "But I think it would be best for me to consult my people before I make such an important decision. I have already made several unpopular decisions without informing them. If I chose to accept a marriage proposal – especially a marriage to a Targaryen – and only tell them of it after the fact, they would be even more angry with me. And that is the last thing we need right now."

Daenerys nodded slowly. "That is acceptable to me," she said, staring at Jon, her lips beginning to hint at a smile.

"Of course, Your Grace…" Tyrion endeavored to keep his voice steady, but he couldn't help but feel apprehensive of the reaction his next words were going to spark. "There is, however, one small problem with the idea…"

"And what is that?"

He really didn't want to bring it up, but he had no choice. "…the succession," he finished reluctantly.

The atmosphere in the room suddenly dropped. Daenerys froze, her head slowly turning to regard him. Once again, her eyes became hard as amethyst, her mouth thinning into a grim line. "I believe we had this discussion already," she said through gritted teeth.

"We did, but –"

"But nothing. My answer has not changed."

"Your Grace," Tyrion insisted. "Perhaps it should, if you're going to marry Jon Snow. A ruler must have heirs, and if you truly can't have children, as you believe, then it might be best –"

"Enough." The Queen's voice brooked no argument. "I will not hear any more of this. Jon and I will marry, and then we will defeat the Night King and your sister together. As I told you on Dragonstone, I will deal with the matter of the succession once I sit the Iron Throne and not before."

 _Stubborn, indeed,_ Tyrion thought ruefully. _You may yet be the death of me, my Queen._ It was clear Daenerys would not be swayed, so he bowed and said, "As you wish, my Queen."

She stood and regarded him coolly. "Do not presume to speak to me about this again, Tyrion," she warned. "You are my Hand and I respect your counsel, but my decision is final."

She stormed out of the cabin. Jon followed behind her and shot Tyrion an apologetic glance as he passed.

When they were gone, the dwarf heaved a sigh. _Well, that could have gone better._

He grabbed the flagon he'd brought and lifted it to his lips, draining its contents far quicker than was advisable. At least wine was one friend he could always count on to make him feel better.


	4. Jaime I

**IMPORTANT: I can't remember whether the Starks ever learned that Jaime actually pushed Bran from the Burned Tower, but for the purposes of this story, I'm going to pretend that they didn't. In this story, Jaime, Cersei, and Bran himself are the only ones who know.**

 **Also, thank you all for the incredible response to this story so far. My only other fic on this site had 84 followers over its nearly six months of life... this has been up for 4 days and already has 82. I can't thank you guys enough. Here's another chapter, and I hope you enjoy :)**

* * *

 **JAIME I**

He saw her every night in his dreams.

The cold, calculating fury in her eyes haunted him constantly. Her unrelenting stare followed him everywhere, lurking in his mind in sleep and in wakefulness. Her words echoed in his ears like a curse.

 _No one walks away from me_.

 _No one but me_ , he thought in defiance, trying to keep the memories at bay. _I did, and you couldn't stop me. You couldn't give the order._

He thought she would. For one horrible second, when she nodded her head and he heard the screech of metal against metal as the Mountain drew his knife, he thought she would. But it hadn't taken him long to notice the hesitation that had crept into her gaze. And that's when he realized.

She was bluffing. She was trying to threaten him, to cow him into submission, because that was all she knew how to do anymore. The woman he loved was gone. She'd been gone for months, consumed by single-minded determination bordering on madness, and he'd just been too blind to see it.

But not anymore. She planned to betray Daenerys Targaryen and the Stark bastard, and in doing so leave the Seven Kingdoms and everyone in it vulnerable to the most horrible fate imaginable.

For so long, he had tried the best he could to regain his honor. He knew he was by no means a good man, but he was trying. The loss of his sword hand had humbled him, and then he met Brienne of Tarth... the woman who reminded him what honor was.

When he killed the Mad King, people called him Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, Man Without Honor. For as long as he could remember, he told himself that their words didn't bother him. He had repeated that over and over again until he actually believed it. But it was never true. He listened to people mocking him and besmirching his name, convincing himself that he was deaf to their insults, but all along, he never realized he was letting himself become the monster everyone believed he was.

Brienne had shown him otherwise. She was the only one to ever recognize his arrogant, devil-may-care attitude for the facade that it was when even he himself couldn't see it. She taught him how to be a knight again, and ever since then, he had attempted to atone in some measure for the horrible things he had done.

When Jon Snow, honorable bastard that he was, had nearly ruined the negotiations simply because he refused to lie about bending the knee to Daenerys, Jaime was stunned. The logical part of his mind – the voice of Tywin in him – told him Snow was a fool to do that. But part of him couldn't help _admiring_ the boy as well, for having the courage to do something Jaime never could.

And that was why he could no longer help his sister betray anyone else. He would no longer allow her to make a liar and an oathbreaker out of him, not when he had struggled with himself for so long to change his ways. So he'd called her bluff. He'd walked away from her forever, and he never once looked back.

But he could never fully escape her. He had ridden north from King's Landing for three days, but no matter how far from the capital he got, her sneer was always in his mind, mocking him.

 _No one walks away from me._

Though Cersei's wasn't the only face that appeared in his thoughts. His rebellious brain reminded him of the look in Brienne's eyes when he'd walked into the Dragonpit. It was anger, betrayal… and disappointment. That was what had made it so difficult for Jaime to stomach, what made it so hard for him to keep walking past her while pretending he was unaffected by her stare. She had believed in him, the only one to ever believe that he could be something better than what he was, yet still he refused to leave his sister.

Brienne would be in Winterfell preparing for the war, he knew. He was equally excited and anxious to see her again. _I finally did it_ , he imagined telling her. _I kept my oath. I abandoned my sister. Are you happy now?_ He couldn't help but wonder if she'd be proud of him for what he did and vouch for him to the Starks, or if she'd given up on him long ago.

It idly occurred to him to wonder why he cared so much about what she thought of him. But whatever the answer, he only knew that he wanted people to stop looking at him with loathing in their eyes and bitterness in their hearts. He wanted to be respected again, like the days when he'd first accepted the white cloak, even if some small part of him knew he didn't deserve anyone's respect anymore.

Those days felt like a lifetime ago, but he could still remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday. He remembered the day he was knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne, the day he joined the Kingsguard. He remembered how the Sword of the Morning had taken him under his wing, teaching him not just how to fight and lead, but how to be just and honorable, a true knight.

He couldn't help but wonder: if Dayne was alive to see him now, what would he say? Would he condemn him as Kingslayer and Oathbreaker, as so many others had done? Or would he accept that he did what he did for the greater good, and forgive him?

Better yet, had Dayne been in Jaime's position, would he have made the same choice? Honor was everything to him, and he had been one of Prince Rhaegar's closest friends, Jaime knew. But if the Mad King commanded Dayne to bring him his own father's head, and expected him to stand by and watch as Aerys destroyed the entire city and all the people in it – including themselves – what would he have done? Would the noble Ser Arthur have been able to break the oath he lived by in order to save hundreds of thousands of innocents from burning alive?

He didn't know, and he never would. His mentor was dead and gone, killed by Ned Stark over twenty years ago. Meanwhile, in some cruel twist of fate, Jaime still lived, and he would carry the ghosts of his past with him forever.

Jaime rode solemnly along the Kingsroad. He knew it was risky; even though he had dressed himself in simple black leather armor instead of the grand Lannister red and gold metal he was known for, there was still a chance that someone might recognize his face. But it was the fastest way to Winterfell, if not the safest, and Jaime really didn't care if anyone identified him.

Besides, winter was here. The snows had started to fall heavy even south of the Neck, and the Kingsroad was nearly deserted. None of the smallfolk wanted to risk their lives or their mounts by attempting to travel in the steadily worsening weather.

He came upon a few small inns and villages as he traveled, but he paid them little heed. He wanted to draw as little attention as possible during his journey north, even from locals, so he opted to camp with a bedroll in the forests lining the Kingsroad. Qyburn had eyes and ears everywhere, and Jaime thought it wise to avoid contact with anyone, lest the spymaster hear word of him.

After three days of hard riding, he thought he was far enough north that he was safe. But it was on the fourth day that they found him.

The winter wind carried the sound of their hoofbeats, and the ground trembled slightly underfoot with their approach. He strained his ears and listened. _Not a full battalion_ , he judged. _A dozen men, maybe two._ He considered trying to fight, but even in his prime when he had the use of his right hand, he knew he could never single-handedly take that many at once.

Besides, he had a hopeful suspicion about who might have come after him, but at this point, he wasn't sure if it was just wishful thinking or not. He decided just to wait and see.

Soon enough, they rode out of the trees and surrounded him, forming an impassable circle of spears and swords. He noted with a small twinge of satisfaction that his original estimate had been close. He counted around twenty-five or thirty soldiers, all outfitted in red-and-gold Lannister armor.

One of the riders urged his horse forward, and Jaime saw that this man had no helm, nor was he wearing the garb of his fellows. He was dressed in simple brown chain mail and leathers, similar to Jaime himself. But moreover, Jaime recognized him, and realized that his foolish hope might have actually paid off.

"Are you here to kill me?" Jaime asked.

Ser Bronn of the Blackwater raised an eyebrow, sitting casually in his saddle. "No, don't think that's what she wants," he replied.

"Drag me back to the capital in chains, then?"

"That's probably more what she had in mind."

Jaime motioned to the soldiers, some of whom were shifting uneasily. "Well? Are you going to keep me waiting all day? Get on with it."

"I said it's what she wanted," Bronn pointed out. "I didn't say I was going to do it."

The Kingslayer cocked his head. "I thought you worked for my sister now," he said.

"That crazy cunt?" Bronn shook his head and nudged his horse closer to Jaime. "Listen to me. I told you I'm the only one who gets to kill you. If you're gonna ride off to gods-know-where and fight gods-know-what, you can damn well bet I'm gonna be right there with you. You still owe me a castle."

Jaime couldn't help it; he felt one of his old smirks creeping onto his face. "If we survive this, you'll get your castle," he promised.

"And that's why I'm here: to make sure you survive this."

Once again, Jaime gestured to the Lannister soldiers. "And the men?"

"These fuckers were guards at the Dragonpit during the meeting," Bronn explained. "They saw that… thing that Clegane brought. The Queen might be mad enough to ignore the threat of the dead, but there are plenty who are willing to fight."

He felt his heart start to beat faster. "More than this, you mean?" he asked. He hardly dared to hope.

Bronn nodded. "Aye," he said. "People are starting to see what a fool your sister is. We left a few behind to spread the word. I'm thinking that soon, a good chunk of the Lannister forces are gonna start marching north, Queen's orders or no."

 _We might have a chance after all_. "Excellent. In that case, I suppose we should get back on the road."

"Lead the way, Kingslayer," Bronn said, giving a mocking bow.

That night, Jaime sat in front of a fire with the sellsword he had come to call his friend – one of the few he had. With the sunset, the temperature had dropped lower than he had ever experienced before, even on his rare visits to the North. They hadn't even reached the crossing at the Twins yet, so that worried him. _It's definitely not a good sign_ , Jaime thought. _It shouldn't be this cold this far south._

Bronn drank from a flagon of ale as the two sat in companionable silence. Jaime spent the time in deep thought, something which Tyrion would have japed was unusual for him. But he had a lot worrying on him, including his arrival at Winterfell, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't put his problems out of his mind.

He was under no delusions that he would be well-received by the Starks and their bannermen, or the Dragon Queen. After all, he had earned his name, the Kingslayer, by breaking his Kingsguard oath and murdering the Mad King, Daenerys' father. And his list of crimes against the Stark family was beyond counting, not the least of which was his attempted murder of Bran Stark by shoving him out of a tower window.

To this day, it still made him burn with shame when he thought of it. It wasn't just the act itself; it was that he had taken such _pride_ in doing it – in trying to kill a ten-year-old boy – that disgusted him. How could he have ever been so cruel, so heartless?

The boy supposedly had no memory of the event, the last Jaime heard. What if he had recalled it since then? Would he have told his family? If he had, Jon Snow would likely execute him the moment he rode through the gates of Winterfell.

Yet he found that he couldn't make himself feel anything but resigned over that fact. _If I die, I die. The Seven know I deserve it. But if not, then I'll fight, and I'll fight with everything I have._

The flames crackled as Bronn tended the wood with a quick poke of a stick. He looked up at Jaime's brooding face and offered him the ale. "You look like you could use this more than me," he remarked.

Jaime took it wordlessly and sipped.

"You thinking about your sister?"

"Among other things." He tried to give a noncommittal answer. He didn't want to be dragged into a conversation right now. _Then again, Bronn never was one to hold his tongue._

Sure enough, the sellsword wouldn't let it drop. "She's got herself in a right pickle, you know that?"

"Yes, I know that," Jaime responded dryly. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Aye. But you haven't been at King's Landing to see the fallout. I have." Bronn paused. "No one's seen her since you walked out," he said grimly. "Word is she's locked herself in the Red Keep with only that big fucker and the creepy maester cunt for company. The smallfolk were starting to riot when we left."

He tossed another twig into the fire. "I know she was never gonna honor her promise to ride north, but I don't think that's gonna matter now. By the time we help the so-called King in the North and the Dragon Queen with the army of the dead, I don't know how much of the capital is going to be left when we march back south."

Jaime waited for the stab of pain and guilt he expected to feel as Bronn spoke about Cersei's decline. It never came. "She's gone mad," he said quietly, his tone regretful. "I should have seen it when she destroyed the Sept. Maybe I did, and I just didn't want to admit it. But she razed a whole building full of hundreds of innocent people just to escape justice, and she used Aerys Targaryen's own caches of wildfire to do it. That's the very thing I stabbed him in the back for, did you know that? So that he couldn't destroy the city with wildfire." He shook his head. "I'm a damned fool. Maybe there's still some of my sister left in there, but not enough. Not anymore." He took a large swig from the ale. "But we'll deal with that problem when we come to it. We have an army of walking dead men to kill first."

"That's the spirit," Bronn said cheerily. "Of course, that begs the question: how does one even kill one of these walking dead men?"

"Fire, Valyrian steel, and dragonglass, apparently," he answered.

"Dragonglass?"

"Black volcanic glass. I've also heard it referred to as obsidian."

Bronn took back the flagon of ale and took another large draught. "Fire's easy enough to get," he said. "Especially with those dragons on hand. Valyrian steel and dragonglass, though… you got any of that hiding up your cunt?"

Jaime eyed him morosely. He drew Widow's Wail and slowly ran a finger down the flat of the blade. "There are still a few of us who carry Valyrian steel swords," he murmured. "Noble houses, mostly. Snow supposedly has one. Lady Brienne has one. They're rare, but there are still plenty that exist in the world." He carefully returned his sword to its sheath. "As for the dragonglass… maybe they have a secret stash of it somewhere. I doubt they would have come all the way to King's Landing and risked meeting with Cersei to convince her to fight if they didn't have a way to arm the soldiers."

"Fair point. Guess we won't know for sure until we get there." He offered the ale back to Jaime, who declined, so he shrugged and drained the rest of it. "What did you think of the Targaryen girl? This… Dragon Queen. Are we riding away from one Queen just to be burned alive by another?"

Jaime considered the question. He had only met her once (not counting the Field of Fire, as her attack on the Lannister loot train was coming to be called), in the Dragonpit, but he thought he had been able to determine something of her character. He remembered the Mad King all too well – _Burn them all!_ – and he had spent the beginning of the meeting assessing her for the same cruelty and madness that Aerys was known for.

But he hadn't found it. Throughout the summit, she remained calm and reasonable, and seemed genuinely interested in a ceasefire. In fact, she was far more respectful about the whole thing than Cersei had been. And he hadn't been blind to the meaningful looks she had been exchanging with the Stark bastard, Jon Snow. He had no clue what had transpired between them, but they clearly shared some level of affection and trust beyond that of a lord and his liege. He knew Snow was as noble and honorable as his late father, so if she had earned his trust even after his uncle and grandfather's cruel deaths at the hands of her father...

Finally, he settled on an answer. "She is not her father," he told Bronn. "I'm fairly sure of that. She seems honorable, and just. At the very least, she would be a better ruler than Cersei."

Bronn snorted. "I hope you're right. But if you ask me, that isn't saying much. My wet shits would be a better ruler than Cersei."

Jaime couldn't help but chuckle at that.

Over the next few days, the company continued traveling north, until they reached the Twins. Even just the sight of the twin towers caused Jaime's lip to curl in disgust. Walder Frey was a repulsive man, but suffering his presence had been a necessary evil when he was Commander of the Lannister army. Now, however, that was not the case. He had long intended to have some harsh words with Lord Walder, and he intended to take full advantage of this opportunity.

He twisted in his saddle and called back to men who followed him. "We'll stop here for now."

As they neared the castle, though, Jaime felt a sense of unease sink into him. He couldn't explain why, but he came under the distinct impression that something was off. It took him a little longer to realize why.

The castle seemed unnaturally empty. There was no one trekking across the road or working in the fields. There were no guards at the gates or on the walls. There were no candles in any windows.

Jaime was beginning to feel very unsettled. Bronn rode up beside him. "They should have signaled our approach by now," the sellsword pointed out.

"Yes," Jaime said. "Something's wrong." He yanked on the reins and his horse cantered toward the castle.

The gates were still closed. He dismounted and approached cautiously, drawing Widow's Wail. He carefully nudged the wooden doors open, and nearly gagged. The overpowering stench of death slammed into him like a physical force. _What in Seven Hells?_ His instincts screamed at him to leave, but he clamped his golden hand over his nose and pushed through into the Great Hall. He stared, wide-eyed, barely able to comprehend what he was seeing.

The hall was filled with lifeless bodies. They were slumped across the tables, lying on the benches and littering the floor. They appeared to have been there for some time; the corpses had probably been decaying for several weeks, if Jaime had to guess.

Bronn stepped up beside him. "What the fuck happened here?"

Jaime could only shake his head. Bronn took out a piece of cloth and tied it around his mouth and nose, and they inched forward to inspect the bodies closer. Strangely, none of them seemed to have any sign of physical injuries, though it was difficult to say for sure given how much they had rotted. But their decomposing flesh was putrid, far more than Jaime would have consider normal for a rotting corpse. _Poison?_ he wondered.

Bronn gingerly shoved one of the bodies out of his way. "As horrible as this looks, I can't say I'm all that sorry about it," he said. "Never liked the Freys. Bunch of slippery cunts, the lot of them."

Jaime agreed with him, but still… "Someone killed their whole house. As wicked as they were, I don't know that they deserved… this."

"Maybe not." Bronn shrugged. "Doesn't matter if they deserved it or not. They're dead and gone now. You're a Lannister, the fuck are you balking about wiping out a family? Reynes and Tarbecks ringing any bells?"

Jaime stiffened. "You know I wasn't even born when my father did that," he said. "And if I was, I would have opposed it."

"Mmm… and what about the Tyrells?"

Jaime had no response to that.

Bronn kicked out at another corpse. Its hand detached from its arm. He cursed. "I'm thinking now would be a good time to leave. I don't think I can stand being in here any longer."

The two of them retreated from the building, coughing and gagging, and rejoined their company outside the gates. Jaime tried to disguise how shaken he was, but he thought Bronn picked up on it anyway. For once, the sellsword chose not to comment on it, which Jaime was grateful for.

"Alright, lads," Bronn said, because Jaime hadn't recovered his voice. "Time to get back on the road."

"What of the Freys?" one of the soldiers asked. "Will they not extend us their hospitality?"

"They're a bit indisposed at the moment. We're gonna have to find another place to rest."

He turned and directed his horse back to the road, with Jaime alongside him. The rest of the men followed suit, despite their looks of confusion. But for the remainder of the journey north, Jaime never could purge the image of the slaughtered Freys – or the accusation of Bronn's words – from his mind.

 _Yes, now the rains weep o'er his halls, and not a soul to hear._

* * *

 **Tried to go for a bit of an ominous ending there, eh? Did it work?**  
 **(If you don't know what the last line is a reference to, you should be ashamed to call yourself a GoT fan. Then you should look up The Rains of Castamere and the history behind it)**  
 **Next up: Daenerys**


	5. Daenerys II

**DAENERYS II**

"What do you think of it?"

She was wrapped up in bed with him, her head lying on his chest, when his sudden question broached the quiet. She stroked his chest, tenderly tracing each of his many scars. "What do I think of what?" she asked innocently. She knew exactly what he meant.

Jon frowned. "Tyrion's idea, the marriage. What do you think of it?"

Dany observed the way the moonlight filtered through the window in her cabin, mixing with the warm light of her candles, before she answered him. "I think it's a good way to establish meaningful ties to the North," she said. "I think it's a solid place to start rebuilding the trust and loyalty between our houses. And…" She kissed him gently on the lips. "…I think I can imagine a worse fate than a political marriage to a man I might also love."

He cocked an eyebrow, amused. "'Might'?" he teased. "That wasn't what you were saying before."

"Guilty as charged, Lord Snow." She kissed him again, a long and passionate kiss that had both of them gasping for air. "What do _you_ think of it?"

He breathed deeply, running his fingers lovingly through her unbraided silver hair. "I think I find it nigh impossible to think about anything besides your beauty when you're in my bed looking like that," he murmured.

"Mmm." She snuggled closer to him. "You're in _my_ bed, actually. But I do see your point."

Jon sighed. "I only worry how the Northmen will react when they learn that their King has bent the knee and fallen in love with a Targaryen."

"So you keep saying." The words sounded much more sour than they had in her mind. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'm just… frustrated, is all. I wish this didn't have to be such a problem for other people."

"I know," he replied, just as softly. "Me, too."

"Don't think about that now. Let's just put it out of our minds for as long as we have to. And no matter what the lords say," she continued. "No matter what happens when we get to Winterfell, I want you to know that I will always stand by your side."

He pulled her in for another kiss and she felt his smile against her lips. She rested her head against his chest once more and closed her eyes. As she drifted off to sleep, she heard him whisper, "Thank you, Dany."

A fortnight later, they were in sight of White Harbor.

Dany stood on the deck alongside Jon, with Tyrion, Davos, Jorah, Missandei, and Varys behind them. It was snowing lightly, coating everything in a thin dust of white powder that reflected the setting sun. She looked out across the waves and beheld the city.

It was a large port city, built on the edge of the bay, with wide straight cobbled streets. The houses were built of whitewashed stone with deeply pitched roofs of dark slate grey. The clean, bright stone made the city almost seem to glow. _It certainly is true to its name,_ Dany thought.

They sailed slowly into the harbor. It was divided into two sections by a mile-long jetty with a towering wall mounted with guard posts every hundred yards. The outer harbor was larger, but the inner harbor was within the city wall and offered better protection.

Dany couldn't deny that it was a beautiful city.

The _Silver Queen_ glided smoothly into the inner harbor. They had sent a raven when they departed Dragonstone, and it seemed the city was well-prepared to receive them. A large dock had been left open for them, and a gathering of nobles dressed in fancy furred robes and plate armor awaited them. At their front was a rather fat, bald man with a greying walrus mustache. He looked like he barely fit in his armor, which was emblazoned with a white merman wielding a trident. She remembered Jon telling her that was the sigil of House Manderly, the lords of White Harbor.

The ship pulled alongside the wood, and men swarmed to tie it down. The sails were furled and the anchor dropped.

Jon walked purposefully towards the plank to disembark, reaching out his hand to her. "My Queen," he said. His tone was serious but there was a knowing sparkle in his eye.

She kept her face impassive as she allowed him to help her from the ship, aware that the Northerners were watching her with thinly veiled anger and suspicion. The fat man walked up to them and bowed to Jon.

"Lord Wylis," Jon greeted.

"Your Grace," the man, Lord Wylis, returned.

Jon didn't bother to correct him. "I trust your father is doing well?"

"Aye, though I'm afraid he's gotten too fat to welcome you himself, Your Grace."

Jon cracked a half-smile and shook his head. "I assumed as much. He need not concern himself." He turned to Dany, and invariably, she felt her heartbeat quicken with nervousness. "My Lord, allow me to introduce Queen Daenerys, of House Targaryen." There was a subtle emphasis on the word "Queen," and Dany wondered at its significance. "She has come to offer us her aid in the Great War."

Lord Wylis appraised her with a calculating look before sinking into a bow. She didn't think it was nearly as deep as the one he gave to Jon. "Your Grace," he said, his tone stiff but not overtly hostile. "On behalf of my father, Lord Wyman Manderly, I welcome you to White Harbor. All of you have been invited to a feast to celebrate your arrival in the city. If you'll come with me, my father is waiting."

He turned and began marching up the street. The people parted in front of him, creating a path for Dany and the others to follow. Jon gave her a reassuring look and set off after Lord Wylis. Dany held her head high and followed.

The people of White Harbor lined the road, eager to see the return of their King. They bowed to Jon as he passed with respectful mutterings of, "Your Grace." They did nothing to hide their glares at Dany. Jon took notice of it and moved himself into a protective position at her side, staring meaningfully out at the crowd. He made sure to meet the eyes of everyone who shot her a dour look, and her heart swelled with his loyalty. _What did I ever do to deserve a man like him?_

The answer was nothing, of course. She didn't deserve him, and maybe he thought he didn't deserve her. But that didn't matter. It never mattered. Dany wasn't sure she believed in fate, but she couldn't help but feel like they were meant to be together. How else could she have ended up falling in love with him, and he with her?

Lord Wylis led them into the keep, past the guards with more sea-green armor painted with mermen. In the main hall, a large table had been set up in the middle, and a whale of a man lounged at its far end.

Like his son, Lord Wyman Manderly was balding and exceptionally fat. His massive body spilled out of his chair like jelly; his fingers were the size of sausages. The aquamarine trident cloak he wore was large enough to serve as a cloth for his table.

Wyman didn't bother to stand in honor of their arrival. Dany didn't think he was physically able to do so. But he did raise a hand to Jon, and bellowed out a greeting in a booming voice that echoed across the hall. "Your Grace! Welcome back!"

"Lord Manderly, a pleasure to see you again," Jon replied politely.

The fat lord waved him off. "Bah, I know you'd rather see anything but my bloated belly. Please, please, sit, Your Grace. Help yourself to the food, if you wish. You must be hungry after your journey." He finally turned his eyes to Daenerys, and though he was guarded, she thought his expression was slightly less aggressive than his retainers. He shifted his gaze back to Jon and inclined his head slightly. "I take it your trip was successful, then, Your Grace?"

Dany answered for him. "Indeed," she said. "He was very insistent in convincing me of the true threat from beyond the Wall. I have accompanied him on his return to the North to offer my aid to his forces."

Lord Manderly's eyebrow crawled up his forehead. "Is that so?" he said. "That is… wonderful news. The North thanks you for your assistance."

 _They have a fine way of showing it_ , she responded in her head, but kept silent. She knew it wasn't fair to expect the Northerners to welcome her with open arms, given what her family had done, but she couldn't help but be slightly bitter about it anyway. It was only for Jon's sake and the sake of their fragile alliance with the Northern lords – one of whom was sitting before her – that she held her tongue. She and Jon sat beside each other at the table, though neither touched any food.

Somehow, Wyman seemed to guess at frustrations. "You must forgive them," he said, nodding towards his men, who had retreated to stand outside the door. "'The North remembers,' as they say, and the Targaryen name is not one which they remember fondly." His bright eyes twinkled as he looked between Dany and Jon for a moment. "Though I daresay that may change fairly soon. I have heard much about you, Queen Daenerys, yet the stories do not quite do you justice."

"Thank you, my Lord," she said. "But I assure you, stories are often exaggerated. Nonetheless, I mean it when I say that I will fight to defend the North until my last breath. Of course, they also say that 'words are wind,' so I can only hope that my actions to this point and in the future will be enough to convince the North I am here to help – and that I am _not_ my father."

She allowed a small touch of passion to edge into her voice towards the end. She was tired of people she'd never even met before judging her simply because her father was a monster. She wanted everyone to see that she couldn't have been less like her father if she tried. She wanted everyone to see her the way Jon saw her.

Lord Wyman smiled amicably at her and nodded, a hint of approval in his face. "Well said, Your Grace."

"My Lord," Jon interjected. "We sent ravens both to White Harbor and to Winterfell before we departed Dragonstone, informing both cities of our arrival. I imagine that any replies meant for us would have been sent here, in anticipation of our stay. Has there been any word from Winterfell?"

"Ah, as a matter of fact, there has, Your Grace." Lord Wyman clapped his hands, and a servant rushed in through a door bearing a small sealed scroll. "It arrived several days ago, signed with the direwolf of House Stark and marked for the King in the North. I have not opened it."

Jon took the scroll from the servant and thanked him. He broke the wax seal and unraveled the parchment, his eyes flitting over the ink. As he read, the blood drained from his face and his hands began to shake.

A lump of dread settled in Dany's stomach. "What is it?" she asked, concerned. "What's happened?"

Jon abruptly shoved the scroll into his tunic and stood from the table. He ignored her question and turned to Lord Wyman. "Thank you for your hospitality, my Lord, but I'm afraid we must continue on," he said, his voice stony. To Dany, it sounded as if he was trying to keep it from trembling. "I apologize for the briefness of our visit, but the news from this scroll is urgent. We must reach Winterfell in all haste."

Wyman bobbed his head. "Of course, Your Grace, of course, I understand."

"Do you have a small scroll on hand, my Lord?" Jon asked.

"Parchment for the King!" Wyman bellowed, and a few moments later, another servant entered the room, carrying a roll of parchment and a quill.

Jon thanked him and took the parchment and quill, scrawling out a quick message. Then he rolled it up, signaled the servant to pour wax onto it, and stamped it with his ring. Then he handed it to Lord Wyman. "Send that with a raven to Winterfell immediately, my Lord," he said. "I expect we can count on White Harbor's forces for the coming battles?"

"Aye, you can. I'll send word to our bannermen tonight, and gather them in the morn. With luck, we can begin marching to Winterfell before sundown tomorrow."

"Thank you, Lord Wyman. Your loyalty will not be forgotten."

"I am still regretful for House Manderly's negligence in the Battle of the Bastards," Wyman said sincerely. "We will do all that we can to atone for that mistake. I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Your Grace."

Jon echoed the sentiment and quickly ushered Dany out of the keep by her arm. Varys, Jorah, Davos, Tyrion, and Missandei were still at the gate. They hadn't even had time to settle into the hall. "Jon, what did the scroll say?" Dany tried to ask again, but Jon just shook his head, his face ashen.

A group of servants brought each of them a horse from the stables. Jon immediately signaled the others to mount. Davos looked like he wanted to question what had the Northman in such a frantic mood, but thought better of it after a good look at Jon's face.

At the last moment, Jorah seemed to realize Tyrion hadn't been able to mount, so he reached down and picked him up with one hand and deposited the dwarf in front of him on the horse. Together, the company rode out from the gates of White Harbor and into the North, heading for the Kingsroad.

* * *

Dany was troubled.

Jon had forced them to ride until the moon was high above them. They rode until they reached the Kingsroad, which was an impressive feat for a single night.

In a forest just off the road, they prepared a hasty campsite when they stopped. They secured the horses to the trees and lit a small fire, setting up fur bedrolls and using their packs as pillows. Most of them were so tired from the hard pace they fell asleep the minute their head touched their packs.

But not Dany.

She lay awake, staring at the blanket of darkness in the sky above her, and thought about Jon. Since he told her the story of his scars, he had never kept anything else hidden from her. She couldn't imagine why he would have reason to do so now. What could have possibly been written on that scroll that would cause him to close himself off like this?

There were plenty of possibilities, of course. Something could have happened to one of his siblings, or there could have been trouble with one of his bannermen. Maybe Winterfell had news of the army of the dead from beyond the Wall.

Whatever it was, her thoughts were just going to keep going in circles. Eventually, she realized she was going to drive herself mad trying to guess what had happened. She needed to just ask Jon about it. He had refused to tell her among the others, but maybe she could convince him if they were alone.

Dany sat up from her bedroll and glanced around the campsite. Each of her companions snoozed soundly… save one. One of the bedrolls was empty. When she realized who was missing, she rose from the furs and moved off into the forest.

It was cold, much colder than it had been at White Harbor or on the ship, but it was still nothing compared to the wilds beyond the Wall. The blood of the dragon kept her warm without the need for a cloak.

It didn't take her long to find him. She knew he was fond of brooding, but she didn't expect him to forsake any attempt at sleep. _Whatever that news was must have really unnerved him_.

She didn't announce her approach. She walked up to him and sat down beside him, resting her head comfortably on his shoulder. A few moments later, he turned and placed a kiss on the top of her head. Then he sighed.

"Tell me, Jon," she implored him softly. "Please. Don't shut me out; let me help you. You don't have to suffer alone."

"It's not my suffering I'm worried about," he said. "It's yours."

"What do you mean? What's happened?" There was no answer. "Jon… what did the scroll say?"

Finally, Jon took a deep breath and steadied himself. "The Wall has fallen at Eastwatch."

Shock jolted through her. The Wall had stood as a beacon of safety for thousands of years. Could it really just be… gone? Was it possible? "How?"

"Dany…"

A horrible, terrible idea took root in her mind. Fear grew in her stomach. "Tell me," she commanded. She had to know if she was right..

"The Night King, he…" Still, Jon hesitated. When he spoke at last, his voice was a tortured whisper. "He resurrected Viserion. He rode him into battle and used his fire to burn down the Wall." He looked at her sadly, his gaze filled with pain and sorrow and regret. "I'm sorry, Dany… I'm so sorry."

Dany's world collapsed around her. One of her children – her own _children_ – turned into a servant of evil. It was unimaginable.

She pictured Viserion as a hatchling, no bigger than a cat. He was always the most even-tempered of her children, almost friendly. He was always nuzzling his head into her palm and wanting to ride on her shoulder, even long after he grew far too big to do so.

Her despair threatened to choke her. _Zaldrizes buzdari iksos daor_ , she had told Jon once. _A dragon is not a slave_. Dragons were creatures of the sky; freedom was in their nature. It was a crime to restrict them from it.

But nonetheless, that was what had happened to her precious Viserion. He had become a slave to the Night King, and Dany could do nothing to help him but put him out of his misery. Just as she had been forced to do for Drogo.

Hot tears leaked from her eyes. She'd thought all her tears dried up long ago, but now the floodgates were open. All the tears that refused to fall at Eastwatch when she mourned her dragon and thought Jon lost burst out of her now. They flowed down her cheeks, an unstoppable manifestation of her sorrow. _Viserion, my baby, my child_.

Strong arms wrapped firmly around her. She clutched his body desperately, gripping him like a lifeline. Within minutes his tunic was soaked, but he just kept holding her, kept muttering, "I'm sorry, Dany. I love you, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I love you." His words were a mantra that she latched onto in a last-ditch effort to keep herself together, needing to believe every word, needing _him_.

Jon held her until her wrenching sobs subsided. Her lithe, petite body still shook with tremors, and her eyes were red and puffy, but she was no longer crying. Eventually, she withdrew from his embrace enough to raise her head and meet his eyes. His grey-black orbs shone with concern.

"That is why I didn't want to tell you," he murmured.

She drew in a shuddering breath. "I know, Jon," Dany sniffed. "But I don't want you to coddle me. Hiding the truth would have only delayed the inevitable, and I'd rather experience my grief here, now, with you, than on the field of battle." She sniffed again. "So thank you for telling me, and for staying with me right now. For loving me. For everything."

He smiled sadly. "You promised me that you would be at my side no matter the actions of the Northern lords. What kind of King would I be if I didn't give my Queen the same devotion?" His voice softened. "You're the strongest person I know, Dany, and you don't need me for that. But need me or not, I will still stand by you. My sword is yours, my life is yours, my heart is yours, now and always."

His declaration swept over her like a warm wave, enveloping her in comfort and filling the emptiness torn in her by her fresh grief for Viserion. The fire in her blood sang out, and she marveled at the feeling. She had a sudden vision of Jon as a fearsome blue dragon, the color of a winter rose, wrapping his wings around her for protection and sheltering her in his innate warmth.

Then it was gone from her mind as quick as it came.

She gently shifted until she was back in her original position, sitting next to Jon with his left arm draped over her and her head resting on his shoulder. For a time, they simply sat there, reveling in each other's comfort.

A wolf howled in the night, and she saw Jon smile at the sound.

Dany decided to speak, hoping it would help her deal with her pain. "Viserion was always the friendliest," she told Jon. Her voice started out faint, but grew in confidence as she continued. "He and his brother Rhaegal were closer to each other than I was to my own brothers. They used to help each other hunt and share the spoils." She gave a wistful half-smile. "Not very dragon-like, I suppose – giving away your prize. But still… I loved them as my own children. I can't think of a worse fate for him to have suffered."

Jon nodded in understanding. He rubbed soothing circles on her back, and she leaned further into him. "Tell me about your siblings," she said suddenly.

He blinked. "What?"

"You said we'll be at Winterfell in a few days, and I want to know more about the Starks I'll be meeting."

"Alright," he acquiesced softly. He continued absent-mindedly stroking her back as he stared off into the blackness of the forest, lost in his memories. "My oldest brother was Robb. He was my father's firstborn, so he was trained to be the next Lord of Winterfell. He was just like Father, except in looks. He was better with a lance than he was a blade, but he had the same incorrigible sense of honor and duty as Father. When Father was killed, he went to war against the Lannisters. Some of our bannermen, the Boltons and the Freys, betrayed him and slaughtered him, his wife, Lady Catelyn, and most of their army at his uncle's wedding."

"That's awful," she said in horror.

"The Boltons are gone, I made sure of that," he said. "The Freys will receive their justice one day."

"Sansa was my oldest sister. She was the image of a perfect Lady. It was her dream to grow up and marry a prince." He laughed mirthlessly. "Fate really has a cruel sense of humor I guess. She's been married twice and betrothed once, never by choice, and the only one to treat her with even an ounce of respect was Tyrion."

"Tyrion?" asked Dany, surprised. "Sansa was married to my Hand?"

"Aye. Long story. Ask Tyrion to tell it one day; as long as he's sufficiently drunk, I'm sure he won't mind." They chuckled quietly together. Then Jon continued, a genuine smile coming over him. "Arya was the next oldest. She was always the closest to me. Robb and I got along well enough; Sansa, like Mother, basically pretended I didn't exist; Arya was the only one who treated me like a true brother. Everyone always said she took after our Aunt Lyanna, both in looks and in attitude. She hated being a Lady, all she wanted to do was learn how to fight. So I trained her when I could, and I think Father knew, but he always turned a blind eye. I can't wait to see her again… I've missed her so much."

He gave her a mirthful glance. "You know, Arya used to love the stories about the old Targaryens. Sometimes when we played together, we would pretend she was Visenya and I was Daeron, the Young Dragon."

The thought of Jon running around with a wooden sword, pretending to be a Targaryen conqueror was too much for Dany, and she giggled like a little girl. "Really?"

"Really," he laughed. "She's a lot like you, fierce but kind. I think she'll like you." He placed a kiss on her forehead.

"Then Bran and Rickon were my youngest brothers," he continued. "Bran loved to climb, but the day King Robert came to visit us, he fell from one of the towers. He lost the use of his legs because of it. He was in a coma when I left, but I know he was devastated. He always wanted to be a knight of the Kingsguard, like Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Dayne was his hero, but his dream was crushed because he was crippled."

"And Rickon…" He heaved a deep sigh and closed his eyes. Dany took his hand in hers and squeezed it reassuringly. "Rickon was only six when I left, but I think he wanted to be a knight, too." He clenched his other hand into a fist. "I watched Ramsay Bolton shoot him down right in front of me and there was nothing I could do to help him. All I could do was avenge him."

"I know what it's like to lose brothers," Dany said. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. But Sansa is alive, and Arya and Bran, even after you thought them dead. And _we_ are still alive; we've survived everything the world has thrown at us, and now that we're together, we're even stronger for it. And I swear to you, Jon, I am never going to let anything tear us apart."

He smiled at her appreciatively, capturing her lips with his, and then they returned to the campsite. They weren't in quite as somber a mood as they had been, and though the shadow of the future still hung over them, Dany remained hopeful. They still had each other, and they always would.

The next morning, when the company woke to the sight of the Dragon Queen snuggled into Jon Snow's bedroll, none of them said a word.

* * *

 **Next up: Sansa**


	6. Sansa I

**I'm sorry to say I'm nearing the end of my banked chapters. I would really like to keep two chapters banked, though, so updates may be slowing down to every other day now rather than every day. Sorry about that, but I don't want to get too far ahead of myself.**

 **On this chapter: I was very annoyed at D &D's portrayal of Sansa in Season 7, especially after her development in Season 5 and 6. I know she's not a very likable character, so I tried to make her a little more reasonable in my version of the story. Hopefully I succeeded in doing so while still remaining true to canon.**

 **And yes, I did use dialogue from 7x07 for part of Sansa's conversation with Arya.**

* * *

 **SANSA I**

 _Thud._

The lifeless body of Petyr Baelish collapsed onto the stone. A puddle of scarlet liquid pooled underneath him from the gash across his throat. As she watched the weasel of a man bleed out in front of her, Sansa Stark could feel nothing but a thrill of triumph and relief.

On some level, she thought she should be disgusted with herself, and she wondered if it was wrong for her to take satisfaction in the suffering and death of another.

Perhaps it was, but she couldn't help it. Littlefinger had betrayed her entire family, contributed to the death of both of her parents, and sold her to be married to the most sadistic family in Westeros – in the name of "protecting" her. He deserved every bit of what happened to him. Killing him had been as much an act of justice as it had been revenge. Surely it wasn't wrong to take pleasure in delivering justice to the guilty.

Whether it was or wasn't, Sansa wasn't going to waste any more of her time on the dead man in front of her. She had spent far too much of her life under his thumb; he wasn't worth even thinking about anymore.

From her position at the head of the table in the Great Hall, with Arya and Bran beside her, she motioned to two guards. "Please remove this worthless piece of dirt from my Hall," she said. "And gather wood for a pyre. The body must be burned."

The guards bowed and did as she instructed, lifting Littlefinger's body between them and lugging him out of the Hall. When they were gone, she sagged back down into her chair, slumping with relief that her torment at the hands of Littlefinger was finally over.

But there was still work to do before she could fully relax. She straightened herself back into a more regal position and cast her eyes across the assembled lords who had witnessed the trial and execution. She was looking for one in particular. "Lord Yohn Royce," she called.

Bronze Yohn stepped forward and bowed to her. He was a large, solid man, with bushy eyebrows and little other hair on his head. Yet Sansa knew his renowned strength had not lessened with age. "My Lady," he said respectfully.

"Lord Royce," she began. "As I'm sure you're aware, Lord Baelish was, prior to his death, Lord Protector of the Vale. Now that he is gone, Robin Arryn will need a new Lord Protector. I would like you to fill that position."

"You honor me, my Lady," said Royce, and bowed again.

"You will have a difficult job ahead of you. It won't be easy tidying up all of Littlefinger's many messes, but I don't doubt you are up to the task."

"Thank you, my Lady. I will do my utmost to ensure that Lord Arryn receives the guidance and training he should have had long ago. I cannot begin to guess how many of my people have been corrupted by that worm Baelish, but I will not rest until the Vale is rid of his influence for good."

Sansa smiled. "I trust that you won't, Lord Royce. Thank you."

Royce stepped back into the group of lords.

"Maester Wolkan," Sansa said. The maester came to her side. "Please find someone to clean up this unsightly blood stain on our floor."

"As you wish, my Lady." Wolkan nodded and began to move away.

A sudden thought struck her. "Wait, no. I've changed my mind. Leave it. Let it serve as a reminder of what happens to those who would attempt to betray the North."

"Very well, my Lady."

Sansa pushed her chair back and stood again. "My lords," she announced. "I thank you all for your support in dealing with the traitor Littlefinger. For now, I would advise you to send word to your bannermen to assemble for war. But I ask that you all remain here in Winterfell until Jon returns. He will be back soon, and I'm sure he'll wish to hold a council when he does." _To tell them he's bent the knee,_ she thought bitterly.

She had debated with herself for quite a while about whether or not she should tell them of his decision. They deserved to know, yes, but eventually she decided it would be better if Jon were to tell them himself. So for now, she held her tongue and kept the information to herself.

There were assorted mutterings of "My Lady" as the various lords bowed and retreated from the Great Hall. Sansa followed a bit after. She didn't have a particular destination in mind, but she soon found herself atop the parapet overlooking the front gate.

She stood there for a while, gazing out over the snows, and sighed. _Come back soon, Jon. We need you._

Snow crunched to her right. She looked over, and saw Arya had come to join her. They stood in silence, until Arya finally addressed her.

"Are you alright?"

Sansa was surprised. Arya's voice was uncharacteristically soft, and she knew her sister was genuinely concerned for her. "It's just strange," she replied. "I think in his own horrible way, he really did love me."

"You did the right thing," Arya assured her.

She turned her head sharply to look at her. "You did it," Sansa countered.

Arya met her eyes and shook her head. "I'm just the executioner. You passed the sentence. You're the Lady of Winterfell."

Even though she knew Littlefinger had just been trying to manipulate them to turn against each other, Sansa was ashamed she couldn't shake the doubt that had taken root in her mind. She had to ask: "Does that bother you?"

Arya looked away and smiled wistfully. "I was never going to be as good a lady as you," she said. "So I had to be something else. I never could have survived what you survived."

This time it was Sansa's turn to shake her head. "You would have," she said. "You're the strongest person I know."

Arya slowly turned to her and eyed her curiously, a smirk tugging at her lips. "I believe that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Sansa couldn't help but smile, too. "Well, don't get used to it," she joked. "You're still very strange and annoying."

They shared a soft laugh, before turning away again to stare out over their homelands. Silence reigned between them once more.

"'In winter, we must protect ourselves,'" Arya said suddenly. "'Look after one another.'"

"Father," said Sansa, nodding. She gave a sad smile. "'When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.'"

"I miss him."

"Me, too." She felt she had to add more. "He would have been proud of what we did today."

Arya smiled. "Yes, he would have."

"Can I ask you to do something for me?" Sansa said.

"What is it?"

"Littlefinger is dead now, but I don't necessarily think his schemes ended with his passing. Lord Royce had the truth of it: his influence lives on, unfortunately. I want to stamp it out completely, until there's nothing left of his memory but the smoke rising from his pyre."

Arya immediately grasped her meaning and nodded. "I agree… and you want me to see if he still has any spies here," she guessed. "I'll do some digging and talk with Bran. Between the two of us, we should be able to ferret out any little birds in Winterfell that might still be loyal to Littlefinger."

"For _questioning_ ," Sansa emphasized. "They might be executed later, but please don't go around killing them out of spite before I have a chance to talk to them."

Arya bowed slightly, her mouth twitching. "Of course not, my Lady." Her tone dripped with mock-politeness.

She turned to leave, but Sansa called her back.

"Arya, wait. There's something else you should know."

The younger Stark tilted her head and motioned for her to go on.

"There was a raven from Dragonstone – from Jon. He's coming here with Daenerys Targaryen to organizing our defenses."

"Well, that's good, then. He secured an alliance."

Sansa hesitated. "He signed it 'Jon Snow, Warden of the North.'" She paused to let her words sink in, then continued. "He's bent the knee, Arya. He's pledged the North to fight for her once the dead are defeated."

Arya's face remained blank for an interminable amount of time. Then she said, "I don't trust this Daenerys Targaryen. But I trust Jon. He's more like Father than any of us, just and honorable and noble. He isn't a fool. If he's bent the knee to her, maybe he saw something in her. Either way, I'm not going to pass judgement on her before I meet her. If Jon trusts her, she deserves the benefit of the doubt."

"Baelish seemed to insinuate that she might have seduced him," Sansa noted.

Arya scoffed. "Baelish was a snake. He probably pulled that out of his arse so you would doubt Jon's reliability, and the sincerity of Daenerys' promise to help us. And if he really believed it could be true, then he was even more of a fool than I thought. Jon would never let something as superficial as lust influence his decisions. I mean, come on, he was still a virgin when he left for the Wall. For all we know, he might still be!"

"Arya…"

"What? I'm only saying. Jon never cared about any of that when we were younger. Why should he now?"

"He's changed, you know," Sansa said softly.

That seemed to catch Arya by surprise. The possibility of Jon being a different man than the one she used to know frightened her more than she was willing to admit. "Changed how?" she asked.

"He's so much more like Father now," Sansa said. "Even in looks. He's started pulling his hair back like Father used to instead of letting it free. He's been through a lot – we all have – he's more mature, but he seems burdened, too. Like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders." She sighed. "But as much as he's changed, at heart he's still the same Jon he used to be. He never wanted to be named King in the North; he hates it, but he's good at ruling, better than he'd like to admit. That's his way, though: he never shies away from making sacrifices for his people, our people, and he never cares about the cost to himself. He gives so much for others, but I just worry that he'll give and give and give, until one day there won't be anything left of him to give."

Arya slowly walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder. "He has us now," she said quietly. "We'll make sure that doesn't happen. But I think at the very least, we should give this Daenerys a chance. If Jon trusts her enough to ally with her and bend the knee, I'm sure she can't be all that bad. Besides, she's pledged to march her armies north and fight with us. That has to count for something."

"So has Cersei," Sansa pointed out. "And we all know what she's like."

"Yes, and that's why if Cersei actually honors her promise, I'll eat my own shit."

Sansa chose to ignore her crassness. "You don't think she will?"

"No, I don't. You know Cersei probably better than I do, though. Do _you_ think she would give up the opportunity to retake the kingdoms she's lost in order to fight alongside people she despises with every fiber of her being?"

She didn't have to consider her answer for very long. "No," Sansa acknowledged. "No, she probably wouldn't."

"Exactly. But we have word directly from Jon himself that he's traveling with Daenerys, and that she's coming here to fight with us. So at the very least, that makes her better than Cersei. Like I said, I'm going to wait until I can meet her face-to-face before I pass any judgement on her. Jon was able to do that. I think you should, too."

"It sounds to me like you've already made your decision in favor of her."

"Oh, I want to like her, it's true, and I have hope that she's as good and honorable as Jon. But don't get me wrong; if she betrays us, I'll cut her throat myself."

With that, Arya inclined her head slightly and descended from the parapet, and Sansa was left alone with her thoughts once more.

Some small part of her knew Arya was right. It wasn't fair of her to mistrust a Queen she'd never even laid eyes on simply because the Queen's father was a madman. But at the same time, how could she forget the crimes of the Targaryens: what happened to her uncle and her grandfather, what Prince Rhaegar did to her aunt?

 _I will not punish a son for his father's sins._ Jon's words came back to her then. It was the first argument they'd had after returning to Winterfell, when Jon had refused to punish the new Lord Umber and Karstark for the betrayals of their fathers.

That was the noble choice, Sansa knew, but it still didn't sit entirely right with her. Neither did allowing a Targaryen safely into Winterfell. What if she turned out to be just as mad as the rest of her family?

But as much as she hated to admit it, Arya did have a point. Jon would not have bent the knee to Daenerys if he didn't believe in her. Sansa needed to trust Jon, and if he had placed his trust in Daenerys, then she would respect his judgement.

Of course, that didn't mean she wouldn't still keep a close eye on the girl anyway.

* * *

A few weeks later, Sansa was combing over a census of resources in her chambers when Maester Wolkan approached with a small scroll in his hand. "A raven from White Harbor, my Lady," he said, bowing.

 _Word from Jon?_ "Thank you, maester." She unfurled the parchment, holding it close to the candle on her table in order to make out the words. "'Dearest sister,'" she read. "'We've received the message you left with Lord Manderly, and have thus decided to continue immediately to Winterfell. We shall arrive within three days of this letter. Give Arya and Bran my best; I am eager to see you all again. Jon Snow, Warden of the North.'"

Sansa frowned. "Maester Wolkan, this letter mentions a message given to Lord Manderly on my behalf. When was this message sent?"

"A few days after the death of Lord Baelish, I believe, my Lady," Wolkan answered. "Lord Stark ordered a raven sent to White Harbor to be held there until King Jon arrived."

"Lord Stark… Bran ordered this?"  
"Yes, my Lady."

Why did Bran need a message sent to White Harbor? And why hadn't he told her about it? "Thank you, maester. You may go." Wolkan bowed and departed.

Sansa absentmindedly fingered the scroll in her hands. It wasn't like Bran to go behind her back like that, but then again… she hardly even knew Bran anymore. And clearly, whatever information his letter contained had been urgent, if Jon had decided not to spend any time idling in White Harbor.

She stood abruptly, leaving the scroll at her desk and marching out the door.

She found her brother where she knew she would, sitting in his wheeled chair in front of the heart tree in the godswood. His back was to her, but he spoke as she approached. "Hello, Sansa."

"Hello, Bran," she replied, walking around the chair to stand in front of him. He watched her steadily, his face giving nothing away. "Did you send a message to Jon without telling me?"

"Yes."

Sansa waited to see if he was going to offer any more of an explanation. When it was clear he was not, she said, "Why?"

"Because the Wall has fallen at Eastwatch. The army of the dead marches south."

She felt as if all of the air had been crushed from her body. How could he deliver such a damning statement so matter-of-factly? "What?! Do the other castles know? We need to send a raven to Castle Black, we have to warn them. We have to get a message to Last Hearth and the other holdfasts north of here. They need to evacuate to Winterfell!"

"It's too late," said Bran, his voice empty. "Castle Black is gone. The dead march for the Shadow Tower. The Night King intends to destroy all the castles on the Wall, even those that are unmanned."

Sansa couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Why didn't you tell us?" she demanded. "We could have saved them!"

"No. Neither reinforcements nor ravens would have reached the Wall in time. I didn't tell you because I couldn't let your attention be diverted."

She stared at him incredulously. "Bran, this is so much more important than anything else I could be doing right now. You should have told me!"

But he shook his head. "No. There is nothing we can do until Jon and Daenerys arrive. They have the soldiers, they have the dragonglass, they have the dragons. Ravens have been sent to Queenscrown, Last Hearth and Karhold to warn them of the danger. For now, you need to focus on the preparations for their arrival and the management of our resources. We can hold a council and decide what further steps to take when Jon returns."

The worst of it was – as much as she wanted to – Sansa couldn't refute his argument. They didn't have the weapons or the numbers to fight the dead right now. If they had sent men to try to defend the Wall or Queenscrown, they would only be slaughtered and added to their enemy's force, and the castles would still be lost.

But that didn't mean she had to like it.

"Next time," she gritted out, clenching her fist. "If you have any information that concerns people's lives, don't wait until I ask you about it to share it. Even if you think there's nothing we can do about it." She turned and stomped away, carving deep footprints in the layer of snow underfoot, and she couldn't help but wonder if there was any other important information he had neglected to mention.

* * *

 **I realize that there hasn't been any real action in the story so far, it's mostly just been dialogue and exposition. Sorry about that, but it can't really be avoided. Things are going to start getting more interesting once everyone is back in Winterfell, but you're just going to have to be patient. I promise I'll get to the fighting eventually.**

 **Next up: Jon**


	7. Jon II

**Some of the reunions everyone has been waiting for :) This was a tough chapter to get right, but not as tough as the next few.**

 **Also, still looking for a beta for some future chapters, send an email to arack1414 at gmail dot com if you're good with characters like Theon and Tormund.**

* * *

 **JON II**

Jon and his companions joined with the bulk of Daenerys' forces on the Kingsroad the second day after leaving White Harbor. They were still roughly another day's ride from Winterfell, and he and Dany had their hands full keeping the army together as they traveled.

The Dothraki were, predictably, not faring well in the frigid temperatures. Having spent their entire lives in Essos and the warmth of the Great Grass Sea, they were entirely unaccustomed to the cold. None of them had ever seen snow before, either, and apparently, the first time on the road that the soft, cold white substance began to fall from the sky, it caused quite a bit of panic among them.

Though they were no longer suspicious of the snow, it was clear they still had no love for the cold, but they were a hard people, much like the Northerners themselves. They bore the cold as well as they could, though they were certainly vocal in voicing their displeasure. Jon resolved to have as many furs made for them as possible when they arrived at Winterfell. In the meantime, they had improvised by adding more layers of leather to their traditionally sparse riding clothes.

The Unsullied, meanwhile, were silent and disciplined as always. Jon found it almost eerie, the way they simply stood, or marched, or slept, following every order without complaint. But Grey Worm assured him that Unsullied were trained to ignore discomfort, and the cold would not bother them. Still, he worried for them. They may not be bothered by it, but their bodies would still be affected by it. And a man could not fight beyond the limits of his body, no matter how ruthless his training or how strict his discipline.

Jon had found Grey Worm, Lady Brienne, Podrick Payne, the Hound, and Gendry riding together at the head of the column. They exchanged brief greetings, but didn't halt the march; Jon was eager, borderline impatient, to get back to Winterfell.

Missandei directed her horse to Grey Worm's side as soon as she caught sight of him and, to Jon's surprise, they kissed passionately. When they broke apart, the smile she gave him was radiant.

"They are well-suited for each other, are they not?" Dany's voice was playful as she rode up alongside him.

"I suppose they are," Jon agreed. "Though I can't say I really know either of them well." His cheeks flushed. "But I also thought Unsullied didn't… err, couldn't…"

Dany's soft laugh lilted through the air like the song of a silver harp. "I myself don't quite understand exactly how it works," she admitted with amusement. "But I am happy for them. They have suffered much in their lives. They deserve some happiness."

"Much like yourself."

She gave no response other than a soft hum, but he knew his words had pleased her.

As much as he desired to continue conversing with her, he decided he should probably have some words with the Hound. He didn't know much about the bulky Clegane man, but he'd heard stories about him from Brienne and Sansa, and he'd been a valuable asset beyond the Wall.

He gently tugged the reins of the black palfrey Lord Manderly had given him and urged the horse over until he was even with the Hound. Brienne and Podrick rode on the other side of him.

"We never did have the chance to talk before," Jon said, addressing Sandor.

"The fuck's there to talk about?"

After spending so much time with Tormund, Jon was undeterred by his vulgarity. "I thought I should thank you," he said. "You saved both of my sisters."

The Hound glanced sidelong at him. "I didn't save anyone," he said. He sounded oddly sad, regretful.

"Sansa said you killed a man who tried to rape her. You offered to take her with you when you left King's Landing at the Battle of the Blackwater."

"I might have."

"Then it sounds like you at least _tried_ to save her. And according to Brienne, you traveled with Arya and protected her for nearly a year. You fought to defend her and almost died for her."

"Aye," he growled. "And then the little wolf-bitch left me for dead when I asked her to put me out of my damn misery."

"Are you angry with her?" Jon asked curiously.

"Not anymore."

"What happened to you after that?"

Clegane narrowed his eyes. "The fuck do you care?"

"I like to know the people I fight alongside," Jon replied evenly. "You're a mystery to me, Clegane. I want to know why you're here. Is there some kind of reward you're after?"

"Not from you."

"From the Queen, then?"

"Which Queen?"

"Daenerys."

The Hound paused. "No, not her either."

"Cersei, then? What reward could you possibly expect from her?" Jon had a sudden flashback to the Dragonpit, and that's when he realized. "The Mountain," he said. "You want revenge."

He grunted in affirmation. "There's nothing in the world I want more than to kill my cunt of a brother."

"Then why go north? Why fight the dead with us?"

"What are you, my fucking mother?"

"Your commander," Jon corrected.

Sandor glared at him for a few seconds, but Jon didn't back down. Then the Hound sighed. "I was ready to give up fighting when I ran into Dondarrion," he huffed. "Then his red priest showed me a vision in his flames. I saw the army of the dead. He convinced me to come with them; he gave me something to fight for."

"So you're telling me that one of the most feared and selfish knights in the whole of the kingdoms just one day decided to help defend the North out of the goodness of his heart?"

"I'm no knight."

"All the same."

For a while, Sandor seemed conflicted. Eventually, he said, "I don't know why the fuck I'm here. But I know that if those dead men kill us all, then I won't get to kill my cunt brother. And I'm the only one who gets to kill my cunt brother. You're fighting on the side that's fighting against him, and that's good enough for me. If I have to cut through an army of dead men first, then fine." He paused. "If it's my loyalty you're worried about, _Lord Snow_ , don't bother. I couldn't protect the little bird from that Prince Prick, and I couldn't protect the little wolf-bitch either. Maybe I'm here as much for them as I am for myself. Maybe I'm just trying to do one fucking good thing before I die."

Jon was surprised to find himself more than a little moved by Sandor's words. That certainly hadn't been how he'd expected this conversation to go. He regarded the man beside him with a newfound sense of respect. "Well," he said. "Whatever the reason, I'm glad you're here, Clegane. You're a good fighter. You saved my life north of the Wall, and believe it or not, I trust you." He held his hand out for Sandor to shake.

The Hound stared at Jon's outstretched hand like it was a snake about to bite him. Then slowly, he reached his own hand forward and clasped Jon's forearm.

His business concluded, Jon returned to the head of the army, positioning himself to the right of Ser Davos and the left of Dany. Tyrion (still hitch-hiking on Jorah's horse) and Jorah rode on Dany's right.

Davos looked at him appreciatively. "Sometimes I think you're a little too honorable for your own good," he said.

"Maybe so," said Jon. "But it's how I was raised, and it's what I believe. That won't ever change, no matter how hard anyone tries."

The next day, at long last, the column crested the snow-covered hill, and Jon beheld the great castle of Winterfell spread out before them.

Even though he hadn't been gone nearly as long as the last time, he still felt the same twinge of relief and joy at seeing his home again. He could make out the tall, rounded towers and the hulking walls of grey stone. He saw the red leaves on the branches of the heart tree dwarfing even the walls in height. And he couldn't help the pride he felt at the sign of the Stark direwolf banners fluttering above the castle. It was comforting to see how it remained unchanged, standing tall through everything that the North had suffered.

Dany cantered up beside him, following his longing stare to the castle in the distance. "It's much bigger than Dragonstone," she observed quietly.

"Aye," Jon agreed. "One of the largest castles in the Seven Kingdoms. The Starks have held it for almost ten thousand years."

"It has its own sort of rough, rugged beauty, doesn't it?" She smiled at him. "I've noticed that seems to be a common trait among products of the North."

Jon quirked an eyebrow, a slight smile edging his lips upward. "Are you saying I'm beautiful?"

"Perhaps I am."

"Mmm… I'm not entirely sure if wolves should be considered beautiful."

She smirked. "Oh, but they are… gorgeous beasts."

Jon didn't bother to restrain the full belly laugh that bubbled up from within him as she parroted his own words back at him. He was normally so reserved, even sullen, that he rarely allowed himself such obvious and carefree expressions of happiness, but he found himself more and more willing to do so the more time he spent with the Queen.

Dany's violet eyes shone with mirth, and she smiled to see him loosen his inhibitions. He hadn't laughed like that in years, and he found himself wishing the moment would never end.

But of course it had to, and his laughter subsided soon enough. "Don't let Ghost hear you say that," he advised jokingly, his mouth still twitching.

"Ghost?" Dany questioned.

"My direwolf."

She blinked. "You have a direwolf?"

Jon nodded and smiled. "Aye. As much as I wanted to bring him with me, I left him at Winterfell; he's not too fond of the sea. And you better hope he likes you as much as your dragon liked me."

Jon grinned and spurred his horse forward, eager to be the first one through the gates of Winterfell. Dany followed him, but their retinue lagged a bit behind, choosing to remain with the rest of the army.

As the familiar grey stone walls loomed closer and closer, Jon pushed his mount faster and faster. He spied a cloaked figure standing on the parapet above the gates, and he thought he could make out a hint of auburn spilling out from the hood. Then he heard someone shout, "Open the gates! The King returns!"

The gates creeped open agonizingly slowly. Then suddenly he was through, back in the courtyard of his home. He dismounted from his palfrey, glanced around at the men assembled on the edges of the yard and atop the walls, and froze.

One person was waiting in the middle of the courtyard for him. It was a girl with shoulder-length dark brown hair styled back like his, short but lithe, standing straight with her hands clasped behind her back. She wore a brown leather jerkin and breeches. A dagger with an incredibly fancy hilt was strapped to her left hip, and a familiar-looking short sword was sheathed at her right. When their eyes met, both broke out into huge, warm smiles.

Then Arya was rushing towards him, and he to her, and then he was crushing her in an embrace. His throat clenched and his vision suddenly blurred. He felt warmth on his cheeks, but he didn't bother trying to hide his tears of joy. His heart ached, a nostalgic, pleasing ache – for their old lives, lost, and their happy family, sundered apart years ago, and even now would only ever be partially reunited.

"I missed you so much, little sister," he whispered.

"I missed you, too, Jon," she whispered back.

They pulled away, and simply stood there smiling at each other, reveling in the joy of their reunion. Jon nodded his head towards Needle. "You kept it," he said, amazed. "After all these years, you kept it."

"Of course," Arya snorted. She tapped the hilt lovingly. "You think I would get rid of a gift from my favorite brother? Needle's saved my life more times than I can count."

"Brienne told me you're pretty skilled with it."

"Brienne talks too much."

He raised an eyebrow. "I wanted to see the truth of her words myself. Once I've settled the important things, you and I are going to spar."

Arya grinned, but before she could respond, another voice interrupted her.

"You're going to regret that, Jon. She's a menace now." Sansa, down from the walls, stepped forward and embraced him with a soft smile. "It's good to have you back."

"It's good to be back," he replied, returning her smile.

Before she pulled away, she muttered into his ear, "I haven't told anyone you bent the knee. I thought it best they hear it from you."

Jon's eyes widened a bit, and he quietly thanked her for her discretion. Then her statement reminded him of who had accompanied him on his rush to the castle.

As more people noticed the figure on her horse behind him – specifically her telltale silver hair – a hush fell over the courtyard. Jon offered her a hand to help her down from her horse, which she accepted. He wanted to keep holding her, but for the sake of the Northerners, he restrained himself and retracted his hand once she was on the ground. He could tell from the knowing look and muted smile she gave him that she understood and didn't blame him.

When Dany stood next to him (close enough that their shoulders were brushing, sending little bursts of warmth through him), Jon said, "May I introduce Queen Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen. Your Grace, this is my sister Sansa, Lady of Winterfell, and my other sister, Lady Arya."

Sansa gave a short curtsy, and Arya bowed. "Just Arya," she amended.

"Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace," Sansa said formally. Jon was impressed that she was able to keep her tone from sounding overly icy. "The North greatly appreciates your aid in this fight."

Dany smiled and inclined her head to them.

Arya stepped forward until she was standing directly in front of the Dragon Queen. As petite as Dany was, Arya was still several inches shorter, but it didn't appear to bother her. She peered up at Dany with a calm, calculating expression.

"You're smaller than I expected," Arya said suddenly.

Jon tensed.

"Arya!" admonished Sansa.

Dany simply stood there for a few seconds, offering no reaction. Then she nodded her head towards Arya's own diminutive form and raised an eyebrow.

Arya's peal of laughter broke the charged silence, and Jon exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. She nodded to him. "I like her. She'll do."

Jon was about to answer when his ears twitched. He caught the sound of a soft _thump, thump, thump_ , and the next thing he knew, a blur of white slammed into him and knocked him to the ground. All the air was crushed from his lungs. Something wet and rough brushed repeatedly over his face.

A heavy weight perched on his chest. "Ooof… Ghost…" Jon grunted once he could breathe again. Jon looked up and met the blood-red eyes of his direwolf. "It's good to see you again, too, but you're not a pup anymore, boy. I can't breathe."

Ghost whimpered, but obediently climbed off of Jon's chest. He gasped for air, alternating between coughing and chuckling. He got back to his feet and Ghost nuzzled into him. The direwolf had grown so much, he now stood almost to Jon's shoulders. He barely had to reach down in order to affectionately stroke Ghost's fur.

"Ah, and you must be Ghost," said Daenerys, and Ghost's attention abruptly shifted to her. He bared his teeth and growled at her, slowly padding towards her.

"Ghost," Jon warned, but the direwolf ignored him.

Ghost stopped when his muzzle was directly in front of Dany's chest. His eyes were fixed intently on her face. His teeth were still bared, and he snarled at her.

Slowly, cautiously, Dany extended her hand towards the direwolf. Ghost sniffed it once. Then he took another step forward and sniffed the center of her chest, then her stomach. Whatever he found, he seemed to accept. His growl ceased and his snarl faded, and he pushed his head into her hand, willing her to run her hand through his fur.

Jon stood wide-eyed, his mouth slightly open. Ghost would accept someone's presence if Jon willed him to, but the direwolf had never, _ever_ let someone outside the Stark family touch him.

He recalled the day on the cliff that Dany's dragon, the one she called Drogon, had allowed him to rub his snout. He doubted that the dragon let just anyone do that. Now Ghost, the most quietly aggressive of the Stark direwolves, was letting Dany pet him in a way that he only ever allowed Jon to do.

What was going on with their animals? He did have to admit that dragons and direwolves were somewhat similar creatures; powerful and graceful, unswervingly loyal to their family or "pack," and merciless towards anyone or anything that threatened the ones they cared about. So why had Ghost and Drogon reacted so positively towards Dany and Jon, respectively? Was it possible that even their beastly companions understood the affection between them, and were willing to accept the other because of that? Or was there some other, deeper reason?

There was no way to know. But Jon _did_ know that standing there, watching the woman he loved shower Ghost with affection as if he were her own, she had never looked more beautiful.

A shadow fell over the courtyard, and a deafening roar shattered the air. Everyone stared up into the sky, gaping, as Drogon and Rhaegal swooped elegantly over the castle. A few terrified screams rose from around them.

Jon hadn't seen the dragons since they first left Dragonstone, and he'd wondered when they were going to make an appearance. He supposed Daenerys had wanted them to reveal themselves in such a way; a not-so-subtle reminder of her power.

"It's alright," Daenerys announced. "They are loyal to me. They will not harm any of you." There was an undercurrent that was not lost on anyone: _They are loyal to me, and will not harm any of you… unless you try to harm_ me.

Jon cleared his throat and tried to regain the attention of his people. "Sansa," he said. "Where is Bran?"

She slowly lowered her head from the sky, her face a little more pale than usual, and pursed her lips. "In the godswood, I think. He spends most of his time there now." She hesitated. "…He's changed, Jon. More than any of us."

"What do you mean?" he asked carefully.

"He says he's become the 'three-eyed raven,' whatever that means. He can see what's going on all around the world through the eyes of animals."

Jon blinked, his surprise clear in his tone. "He's a warg?"

"You've heard of this kind of thing before?"

"Aye. One of the wildlings I traveled with could share the mind of his eagle."

"That's not all," Arya interjected. "He has visions."

He shivered slightly. "What kind of… visions?"

"Things that have already happened," she said. "He can see the past, as if he was there when it happened. He has glimpses of the future, impressions or something – greendreams, he calls them."

"How?"

"Something that he learned when he went beyond the Wall. I know it sounds crazy, but he hasn't been wrong yet."

"He saw the Wall fall," Jon remembered.

"He also said to tell you that he and your friend Sam need to talk to you," said Sansa. "As soon as possible."

The sound of hoofbeats filled the air, and then the courtyard was suddenly very crowded. Davos, Gendry, Missandei, Grey Worm, Varys, Tyrion, Jorah, Brienne, Podrick, and the Hound all rode into the castle and began dismounting their horses.

Jon turned to her quickly. "Sam's here?"

"Yes. He's spent most of his time with Bran, or in the library."

He hesitated, then shook his head. "There's no time for that right now. I need to get these people settled in, and then I need to hold a council with the lords. Bran and Sam will have to wait a little longer. But make sure Bran knows I need him there for the council. And Sansa… where is Lord Baelish? I had assumed he would be here to greet us. Where has the snake slithered off to now?"

Sansa and Arya exchanged a glance, the ghost of a grin on both their faces. "He's dead, Jon," said Sansa. "We executed him for treason."

Jon didn't quite know what to think at first. He didn't like the idea of his sisters taking someone's life, even someone as slippery as Littlefinger. But he couldn't deny that he was relieved and grateful not to have that man's shadow lurking over them anymore. "Was he given a fair trial, at least?" his honor compelled him to ask.

Arya shrugged. "I suppose you could say that."

That was good enough for Jon.

His gaze drifted to Tyrion. The dwarf was struggling to get down from Ser Jorah's horse. In the end, he tried to hop out of the saddle, and landed rather unceremoniously face-down in the snow.

Sansa hurried over to help him. She hoisted him onto his feet, and he spewed snow from his mouth. When he caught sight of Sansa, he gave a bit of a self-deprecating smile. "Ah, my Lady wife," he drawled. "How nice to see you again."

"Hello, Lord Tyrion," Sansa said warmly, smiling back at him. "I trust you've been well?"

"Well enough. And yourself?"

"I… I am better than I have been in a long time," she admitted.

He smiled, a real smile this time. "That is good to hear, my Lady. But before the dreary business begins, if you don't mind me asking… do you have a wine cellar here?"

Jon chuckled and walked with Dany out of earshot, over to where Grey Worm, and Missandei were standing. "The Dothraki and Unsullied are going to have to camp outside the city walls," he said. "I can have furs made and sent to them if they wish, but I'm afraid we just don't have room for them in the keep."

"Unsullied will not need furs," said Grey Worm.

"That should be fine," Dany said. "They can build fires if they need to."

"Perhaps you should send Ser Jorah to inform them," Jon told her.

Dany frowned. "Why Jorah?"

"He is the only one of us besides you who speaks Dothraki, and unlike you, he doesn't need to be there when I tell the lords of my fealty."

"Missandei speaks Dothraki."

"Then she can accompany him. But I need you with me for this, Dany."

After a time, she nodded. "Missandei," she said. "Take Jorah and see that the Dothraki are comfortably settled. Let them know of Jon's promise to fulfill their needs if the cold proves too much of a challenge."

Grey Worm took a step forward. "Grey Worm requests to go as well."

Dany looked at Jon, who shrugged. "Alright," she said softly. "Go."

The two of them moved off to find Jorah, and Jon was left alone with Dany.

"You don't want the lords to learn about Jorah's identity." Dany correctly guessed Jon's ulterior motive.

"We have enough problems to worry about with them right now," he agreed. "Without adding the business of pardoning someone the North regards as a traitor. I promise I'll sort it out soon enough."

"Mmm."

A few quiet seconds passed.

"You have no idea how badly I want to kiss you right now," Jon murmured, his voice barely audible.

"I believe I have some idea," Dany responded. Her eyes were fixed on his lips.

It took all of Jon's restraint to remember where they were, and how many people surrounded them at that moment. "Not here," he breathed. "Tonight. We'll find a way."

Dany wordlessly nodded her agreement.

Jon called out to Maester Wolkan, who had been patiently waiting on the edges of the courtyard for just such a summons. He came toddling over and bowed to Jon and Dany. "Maester Wolkan, please summon the lords to the Great Hall immediately," Jon ordered. "We have many important matters to discuss with them."

"Which lords, Your Grace?"

"All of them."

* * *

 **I spent a lot of time trying to get the Hound right. Did I do a good job?**  
 **Let me know how you think I did with those reunions. There'll be a few more next chapter; it's a hefty one.**  
 **Still no action... sorry about that. Gonna have to wait a few more chapters for that.**  
 **Next up: Arya**


	8. Arya I

**This one was probably the toughest chapter yet to write. It's also the longest. There was a lot of stuff that I needed to include, and I hope I was able to do it in a way that seems to remain true to the characters and the story.**

 **Again: still would love a beta for some upcoming chapters, email me if you're interested. arack1414 at gmail dot com.**

* * *

 **ARYA I**

The day seemed almost like a dream for Arya.

It started off as nothing out of the ordinary; she woke early, dressed in her jerkin and breeches, and headed to the training yard to hack away at some dummies until a real person showed up to spar with her. With Brienne gone to King's Landing, she was sadly lacking for suitable partners, but she made do with what was available to her.

Once she put the unfortunate soul on his backside numerous times, she called it quits and decided to grab something to break her fast. She knew Sansa would be eating in the Great Hall – and probably expected Arya to join her – but she had no interest in involving herself in the politics that Sansa would likely be dealing with during her meal.

Instead, she went to the kitchens. She grabbed a small roll of bread and returned to her chambers to eat it. While she was doing so, a messenger knocked on her door to inform her that a great host had been sighted only a few leagues from the castle.

The King in the North was finally returning home.

From then on, it was a nigh impossible struggle for her to contain her excitement. Jon was always the brother she was closest to, and she hadn't seen him in years. He was the only one who encouraged her dreams to become a swordsman – or swordswoman.

She never wanted to be a lady. She just wanted to learn to fight, and because of that, she felt like an outsider. She supposed, as a bastard, Jon could understand that more than anyone. Maybe that was why he had helped teach her how to fight. Either way, she was ecstatic to see him again.

Sansa said that physically, he had changed. But she knew that beneath his hardened, mature exterior, he would still be the same Jon who had loved and cared for her when they were young, the same Jon who had secretly gifted her Needle, her most prized possession.

She returned to the training yard and sparred a little while longer, until she heard a voice cry out, "Open the gates! The King returns!"

The moment she heard that, she rushed to the main courtyard and stood there, eagerly awaiting him with bated breath. Then he rode through the gates, and Arya laid eyes on her brother for the first time in six years.

Her first impression was that Sansa's description of him was exceedingly accurate. With his billowing black fur cloak and his dark hair pulled back like her own, his resemblance to Father was striking. But she could tell that her sister also wasn't exaggerating about his bearing.

She saw a long scar that twisted around his right eye, and a smaller, lighter one that crossed his left eye. Though he held his head high, she could see the subtle tension in his shoulders and the strained set of his jaw. It worried her to see him so troubled, but she understood how he must feel. After all, he was to be the one to lead the fight against an army of walking corpses.

For now, she put those thoughts out of her mind and resolved to simply enjoy reuniting with her brother, a man she thought she might never see again.

Jon cast his eyes around the courtyard as she waited patiently for him to notice her. When he did, he suddenly froze, and Arya saw the look of pure, unbridled happiness that crossed his face. She dashed forward and he met her halfway, engulfing her in a bone-crushing hug.

The last time he had held her in his arms was the day he left for the Wall, the day he'd given her Needle. That was the last day she'd felt like she had a real family, a home. It seemed like a lifetime ago. But as she breathed in his scent – snow and sweat and leather and _Jon_ – she knew that her home was complete once more.

She missed Mother and Father and Robb and Rickon, of course, but now all of her living family was back in Winterfell where they belonged. The thought filled her with warm, comforting joy.

After they released each other and Sansa descended from the parapet (a place she'd grown fond of to help her think), Jon finally introduced them to Daenerys Targaryen. Arya wasn't sure what exactly she had expected, but it wasn't the woman who stood in front of her.

She supposed that somewhere in the back of her mind, after hearing about Daenerys' dragons and her conquest of Slaver's Bay – now aptly renamed the Bay of Dragons – she had pictured a warrior woman like Brienne. A fierce young girl, tall and strong, riding on the back of her dragon with a sword in her hand, liberating slaves and fighting for the smallfolk. She had hoped that she would be like Queen Visenya Targaryen; a reincarnation of her childhood hero.

Daenerys wasn't quite like that. She was young, yes, about Jon's age, but she was petite – not unlike Arya herself, though it wasn't difficult for her to guess that Daenerys had never held a sword in her life. Still, it was clear that she was every bit as much a Queen as Visenya. She possessed the signature ethereal Targaryen beauty: stunning silver hair and alabaster skin, fair features and eyes like amethysts. She carried herself regally, with her hands clasped in front of her, and wore a flattering pale blue-and-white fur coat. A silver three-headed dragon chain wrapped around her body from her right shoulder to her left hip. ( **A/N: this is Dany's outfit from 7x06.)**

When Jon walked forward alongside the Dragon Queen, Arya thought she detected a flicker of… _something_ in his eyes, something beyond simple respect or deference. _Baelish seemed to insinuate that she might have seduced him_ , Sansa had told her. Arya had assumed that had been just another of Littlefinger's machinations, attempting to sow doubt between them. But could it actually be true? _No_ , she thought. _Jon would never be fooled like that_.

She observed them with a more critical eye as they drew closer. She saw the way their eyes seemed to flit towards each other, without them even realizing it. She saw how their shoulders unconsciously brushed together while they walked, a gesture that should have been considered far from appropriate.

She had to restrain her sharp intake of breath as she realized a staggering possibility. She was even more convinced now that Daenerys had not seduced Jon… but what if they had actually fallen in love _with each other_?

Could that be the real reason he bent the knee? Was that why she had agreed to put off her war with Cersei to travel north and fight?

She would have to watch them carefully. If it was true, and they really did have a relationship beyond Queen and vassal, she would make sure that Daenerys was the woman she claimed to be. She would make sure that Daenerys was worthy of him.

After the introductions were out of the way, Arya stepped forward until she was standing directly in front of Daenerys. She appraised her silently, sizing her up. Finally, she settled on, "You're smaller than I expected."

She ignored Sansa's cry of protest at her informality and simply watched Daenerys for her reaction.

The Dragon Queen blinked once, apparently caught off-guard by her brusque statement. Then her lips quirked slightly upward. She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow, as if to say, _What, and you aren't?_

It reminded Arya of the day King Robert had come to Winterfell. He had stood there in front of Father, telling him that he'd gotten fat. Ned had simply nodded to the King's own bulging belly, and the two burst into laughter.

Thinking of how absurdly similar that moment was to the present – and seeing the amusement written clearly on the Queen's face – brought a chuckle to Arya's throat. Before she knew it, she was laughing hard enough that some of them were beginning to look at her strangely.

Ignoring them, she grinned and inclined her head to Daenerys. Then she nodded at Jon. "I like her," she said. "She'll do."

Maybe it was too soon to reach that conclusion – after all, she still didn't know hardly anything about her – but she had some kind of intuition that Daenerys was genuine. She resolved to observe her closely during the inevitable council Jon would need to call.

Everyone seemed to let out a breath, and Arya almost snorted. What, did they think she was actually going to attack the Dragon Queen? Honestly.

After Ghost and the dragons (Dragons! That certainly made Daenerys seem more like Visenya in her eyes, and made her admiration for the woman grow even more) made their presence known, Jon and Daenerys moved off to discuss something with the bald soldier and the woman with a bush of brown hair, and Sansa shuffled over to help Lord Tyrion. Arya found herself alone, but only for a moment.

"Little wolf," a gruff voice said.

Her eyes widened. There was only one person who ever called her that. She recognized his voice, but it was one that she never expected to hear again. She spun around instantly, wondering if she was somehow mistaken.

She was not. There in front of her, large as life, stood the Hound, Sandor Clegane. He looked much the same as she remembered, his scars and stringy hair just as ugly as ever, only his brown beard, now streaked with gray, was a bit bushier than she remembered. His black chain mail shirt clinked as he walked towards her, his cloak dragging on the snow behind him.

"I thought you were dead," she said shortly.

"Not yet," was his reply. "No thanks to you."

"I took you off my list."

"You and your fucking list… you going to put me back on it now you know I'm alive?"

She considered the question. She expected to be angry with him in some capacity, but the truth was, the Hound had been one of the few people in her life who didn't treat her like a lady, like some fragile thing that would break at the slightest touch. He'd protected her for almost a year and taught her how to survive in the real world. He had come to care for her in some strange but sincere way, and she for him. She found the idea of taking his life was abhorrent to her.

"No," she told him softly. "I don't want to kill you anymore."

He grunted. "More's the pity. I was almost looking forward to fighting you."

"You shouldn't. I'd beat you."

He barked out a harsh laugh. "You think so? With that fucking twig you call a sword? You remember what I told you about armor, don't you, little wolf?"

Arya met his gaze evenly. "I'm not the same little wolf I was when I left you," she said.

The Hound looked at her then, _really_ looked at her. He saw the carefully disguised confidence lurking behind the calm grey pools of her eyes, and he knew that whatever had happened to her since the last time he saw her, she had indeed become a different person. A stronger person. "No," he agreed. "No, you aren't."

She cocked her head and assessed him in return. "But I don't think you're the same dog you were then, either."

"What makes you think that?"

"That dog wouldn't have come here to fight with us. He would've been happy to find some house in the middle of nowhere and sit out the war with his tail between his legs. He was a selfish prick, and he wouldn't have cared about fighting to save the realm."

"You trying to say I've gone fucking soft, is that it?"

Arya smiled at him. "I don't think you're a bad person, you know," she confessed. "Not really. Maybe I did once, but not anymore. I think somewhere in there, you really do want to help us. I think that as much as you might want to hide it, you've started to care about some of these people. And I think you want to do your part to help protect us, because we need you."

"No one needs me to protect them," he said, a hint of remorse creeping into his tone. "You and your sister proved that."

"And yet, here you are."

The Hound sighed. "Aye… here I am."

"Arya? Is that you?"

Another familiar voice reached her, yet another voice she thought she'd never hear again. Her heart stopped, and she found it extremely difficult to swallow the lump that had suddenly crawled into her throat.

Sandor noticed her reaction. He muttered a quick farewell and stomped off somewhere. Arya didn't know where he was going; she didn't care. She was no longer paying him any attention.

She was solely focused on the muscled, black-haired young man who now stood in front of her.

"Gendry," she breathed.

Ever since her father died, Arya had constantly tried to rebuild her family; her pack. Years ago, Gendry was the first one she had chosen to help her do so, hoping that he would always be there with her. But then the Brotherhood sold him to the red witch, and she thought she'd lost another person who had become close to her.

Gendry's loss had hit her much harder than Sandor's later would. She had mourned for him, just as intensely as she had for Father and Robb and the others when she thought them dead. He had truly become a part of her family in her mind, without her hardly even realizing it.

Now that he was back, her stomach was roiling with a multitude of unfamiliar emotions. At least with the Hound, she knew where she stood. She'd hated him at first, but as they traveled together, she'd come to appreciate everything he'd done for her and begun to respect him, even grown to like him.

It was entirely different with Gendry. She had cared for him more than she thought she was capable of caring for someone – then or now – who wasn't directly related to her, almost right from the beginning. She had no idea what to do with the affection that was now sweetly tormenting her.

"M'lady Arya," he greeted, giving her a half-bow.

"Call me m'lady again and I'll gut you." The automatic response was out of her mouth before she could stop it. Of course she would never want to harm Gendry, but he didn't necessarily know that. She wasn't a lady, though, and she didn't want him to think she had turned into one in the interim since they'd last seen each other.

He blinked, then grinned at her. "I wouldn't expect anything less, m'la – Arya."

"I thought you were dead," she said, for the second time that day. Her voice was softer now, threatening to tremble. Arya raged at herself to rule her face, keep her emotions under control. "What happened to you?"

The question seemed to make him exceedingly uncomfortable. "The red witch took me to Stannis," he said, shuffling. "They tried to kill me. They would have, if Davos hadn't set me free." He gestured towards an older man who was talking to Tyrion and Sansa.

"Well, I need to find this Davos later and thank him. I added three names to my list because of that, you know."

"Your list?"

"Of people I'm going to kill." She delivered the statement flatly, as always. Gendry was unfazed, and she grinned internally.

"Ahh… then which three names on your list were because of me?"

"The red witch, of course. Beric Dondarrion. Thoros of Myr."

"You can strike off Thoros," said Gendry, and she was confused by the sadness in his voice. "And I think you should take Beric off, too."

"They're both dead?"

He hesitated. "No, Beric is alive," he admitted. "At least, I think he is. But I don't want you to kill him."

 _What?_ "He and Thoros sold you to the red witch to die! And yet you sound unhappy about Thoros' death and you want me not to kill Beric?"

"I went north of the Wall with Jon, Arya," Gendry said seriously. His tone was more grim than Arya had ever heard it. "I saw what's coming for us. Beric and Thoros came with us as well, to help us. Thoros died fighting with us." He shook his head. "We can't let old grudges divide us anymore. We all have to fight together against the dead, or we don't stand a chance."

"Fine," Arya said. "I'll take Beric off."

"Thank you."

"But if I ever see the red witch again…"

"Trust me, I won't stand in your way." He tilted his head. "Now what happened to _you_? That's a fancy sword and dagger you've got, and something tells me you know how to use them."

Arya debated how much to tell him. Should she say that she trained with a guild of assassins? That she had learned more ways to kill someone with her bare hands than you could shake a stick at? That she could wear other people's faces and assume their identities?

She didn't want to drive him away so soon after finding him again, so she settled on as vague an answer as she could get away with. "I traveled with the Hound for a bit, and I learned a lot from him. Then I crossed the sea, to Braavos. I honed my skills there, until it was time to come home."

He eyed her strangely, and she could tell he knew there was more to her story than she was telling him, but he nodded in acceptance of her answer. "Well, I'm glad I got to see you again. I've thought about you a lot in the last few years."

Her heart began to beat a little faster. How was she supposed to respond to _that_? "I mourned you, you know," she said quietly. "I grieved for you as much as my own family."

Gendry didn't respond, only opened his arms. Immediately, Arya stepped forward into him, taking comfort in the strength and warmth of his embrace. Her eyes glistened, but she blinked back her tears. She would not cry in front of him.

"I'm glad you aren't dead," she whispered.

* * *

The Great Hall was more crowded than it had been since King Robert's visit all those years ago. The four tables on the floor level were filled with people; lords, their children and trusted advisers, and their bannermen. The more prominent lords pledged to Jon's cause – Royce, Cerwyn, Glover, Hornwood, Manderly (Lord Wylis had come to Winterfell as leader of the Manderly men, as his father was physically unable to leave White Harbor), Lady Mormont – were seated on the ends closest to the head table. Even Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch in the Neck and one of her father's closest friends, was in attendance.

On the raised dais in front of the hearth, the head table was positioned perpendicular to the others. Daenerys sat on Jon's right, both of them sharing the middle section of the table, rather than a single seat in the center – a fact that escaped no one's attention, and spurred many resentful whispers through the assembled lords. Sansa was to his left, and Bran after her.

Lord Tyrion was seated to the right of the Queen, and Varys the Spider was beside him. Davos stood behind Jon's chair.

Arya, meanwhile, stood with her hands clasped behind her back in the corner of the room to the left and behind the head table. She was nigh invisible to everyone in the Hall, cloaked in shadows, and yet she had a near perfect view of everyone else. Technically, as a Stark, she should have had a seat at the high table, but Arya preferred the power of anonymity granted her by her current position. It was just as she liked it: she could see but not _be_ seen.

She was fully aware that the subject of this meeting was not going to be well-received by the lords. She wanted to be hidden so that she could observe their reactions and expressions uninhibited and without arousing suspicion. She needed to know if any of them begun to have doubts that Jon was no a longer a leader worth following after the decisions he'd made.

Once Jon was certain all the lords had gathered, he stood. "My Lords," he called. He barely raised his voice, but his words sliced through the curtain of conversation in the room.

The Great Hall grew silent within seconds.

 _A whisper that commands silence_ , Arya mused admiringly. _But will their respect for Jon persist even after he tells them the truth?_

Jon launched into his opening. "My Lords," he repeated. "As you can see, I have returned to Winterfell safe and unharmed. I am grateful for your patience and your trust in me during my voyage south." He took a deep breath. "Now I must ask that you trust me again."

"I have secured an alliance with Queen Daenerys Targaryen. She has allowed me to mine the dragonglass from Dragonstone and transport it with us to the North. But beyond that, she has brought her armies and her dragons north to aid us. She has sworn to fight with us against the Night King and the army of the dead."

"And what was the price for such an alliance?" someone shouted. Arya looked around, but she couldn't identify the source.

Jon steeled himself, and then delivered the news as calmly as he could. "I have pledged myself to fight for her against Cersei Lannister, once we defeat the dead."

For one tense second, there was not a sound to be heard in the Hall, as the lords digested this information and analyzed its meaning in their heads. Then all at once, the Great Hall erupted with noise.

"You bent the knee!" Lord Cerwyn accused. "You would sell the North to a Targaryen?"

"Her father murdered Lord Rickard and Lord Brandon Stark, yet you would give her command over us?" shouted Lord Glover.

"How can you speak of trust, when you betrayed ours and knelt to a Southern ruler?" cried Lord Hornwood.

Arya scanned the Hall with an assassin's eye. She ignored the loud outbursts; it was usually the quiet ones you had to be careful of.

Yet it seemed like almost every single person in the room was yelling or shouting… save one. Howland Reed alone said nothing, though to Arya, he appeared neither suspicious nor dangerous; only strangely resigned.

Arya watched Jon carefully. With each new cry of outrage, his jaw twitched, and she saw his fist clench tighter and tighter under the table. _What is she to you, brother, that you would succumb to such fury on her behalf?_ she wondered. Then she spied Daenerys subtly reach over and briefly brush her hand over Jon's balled fingers. The gesture went entirely unnoticed by the rest of the Hall; Arya could only see it because of her position behind the table. Her eyes narrowed. _And what are_ you _to_ her _?_ she added.

Yohn Royce's voice, as usual, was the loudest, rising above the din and drawing most people's attention. "A Targaryen cannot be trusted! How do you know she does not plan to turn her armies and her dragons against us the moment we turn our backs?" A chorus of resounding "aye"s echoed his sentiments.

After the Queen's placating touch, Jon relaxed his fist and calmed himself. "Enough!" he said. The Hall quieted to listen to his words – but Arya noticed it took a decent amount longer than it had the first time.

Jon faced Bronze Yohn and Robett Glover and met each of their gazes. "Lords Royce and Glover," he said evenly. "I understand your concerns, though I recall you both said something very similar when I first announced my attentions to travel to Dragonstone. You advised me against it, and reminded me of what happened to my uncle and my grandfather when they traveled south at the Mad King's invitation. And yet, despite your misgivings, despite your suspicions, here I am; returned home again, very much alive, and with a willing ally at my side. I can assure you, my Lords, Queen Daenerys is nothing like her father."

"Even so," grumbled Glover. "She is no Northerner. I meant what I said when I declared that I would never follow another Southron ruler. Would you make an oath-breaker out of me?"

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but Daenerys spoke for the first time, interrupting him. "If I may, Lord Snow," she said quietly. There was an undercurrent to that title, a note of teasing, perhaps, though apparently subtle enough as to be indecipherable for any but Arya. Once again, she struggled to contain an amused snort.

Daenerys rose beside Jon. "With all due respect, Lord Glover," she began. "You have not seen the threat we face. None of you have seen the army of the dead."

"And I suppose you have?" Lord Cerwyn scoffed.

"I have," she confirmed. The Hall was filled with muttering voices, but Daenerys spoke over them. "I traveled north of the Wall, and I faced the Night King and his army at Jon's side."

' _Jon,'_ Arya noted. _Interesting._ But again, the informality went unnoticed by all save her and Sansa, whose jaw tightened.

"We're supposed to just take your word for it?"

"She saved Jon's life." Bran entered the conversation, speaking with certainty. _He must have seen this_. "He and his companions were trapped on an island in the center of a frozen lake, surrounded by the dead. Daenerys flew her dragons to his aid and rescued them. One of her dragons was killed in the process."

Arya's eyes grew wide. She hadn't known that. Daenerys risked her life and sacrificed one of her dragons to save Jon? _It's true, then… she does love him._ She wasn't quite sure whether that was good or bad yet.

At Bran's words, a hush fell over the Hall. Jon tensed, and glanced at Daenerys in concern. She had stiffened almost imperceptibly, and Arya saw her blinking rapidly; she was trying to dispel tears.

Arya's heart went out to her. She remembered how she felt the day she'd forced Nymeria away, and when she'd encountered her again a few weeks ago, only to have the direwolf turn her back on her. At least she knew Nymeria was still alive. She couldn't imagine what it would be like if she had died. Arya had heard Daenerys called the "Mother of Dragons" before, but she hadn't thought the title was anything but a metaphor. Now, though, she could see that Daenerys really did care for her dragons as if they were her children.

This time, it was Jon who subtly reached over and grasped the Queen's hand, squeezing it once before withdrawing. That seemed to help her compose herself, and she shot him a grateful look.

The lords seemed at a loss for words. "Ah, Your Grace…" Robett Glover said. It was the first time any of them had used the epithet. "I… I apologize. I did not know –"

"No," she cut him off. "You did not, and you did not bother to even consider trusting me." Lord Glover squirmed, appearing decidedly uncomfortable, along with many of the others. "But I understand that. I was much the same, when Lord Snow first arrived at Dragonstone. He defied me in my own throne room; he staunchly refused to bend the knee to me… repeatedly, no matter the argument I used. What happened north of the Wall…" She shuddered. "Yes, I lost one of my dragons, one of my children. And Jon sacrificed himself to buy the rest of us time to escape."

There was a collective intake of breath throughout the Hall.

"I thought he was dead," Daenerys continued. "And then he returned." She smiled softly down at him. "We both witnessed the lengths of sacrifice we were willing to make for each other. Only then did he finally agree to bend the knee." She took a deep breath. "I understand your reluctance to accept a Southern ruler; truly, I do. I know what my father was, what he did. Nothing I say to you today will ever erase the past; I am not naïve enough to believe that could be possible. I have not come to bring you words. I have come to bring you _actions_ , to bring fire and blood against the coming tide of ice and darkness. Some of you will still mistrust me, and I understand that there may be nothing I can do to convince you I am worthy of your trust. But I can certainly try. And that is why, my Lords, I bring you an offer."

Jon's head suddenly whipped towards her. "Daenerys…" he said warningly. "Are you sure now is –"

She didn't let him finish. "Yes, Jon. I am sure." Her tone brooked no argument. She met the eyes of each person in the room, and none of them could hold her gaze for long. "As I said, I have an offer. I still intend to depose Cersei Lannister from the Iron Throne once the dead are defeated. I _will_ be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, _including_ the kingdom of the North. However… I do not intend to allow Jon Snow to continue serving as Warden of the North."

The lords glanced at each other in confusion and anger, until her next statement reached their ears.

"I intend to make him King, to rule the Seven Kingdoms at my side," Daenerys finished. "The offer I bring… is one of marriage."

Now _that_ was not something Arya was expecting. She couldn't contain her shock. In that moment, she was grateful no one could see her; she was gaping like a dead fish, her eyes the size of saucers. Her Faceless masters would have chided her endlessly for such a display of emotion, but she couldn't help it.

The rest of the Hall reacted similarly. Sansa turned to Jon, stony-faced, her lips parted and her eyes cold and wide, demanding an explanation. Lords Royce and Glover seemed to have been struck speechless.

Finally, Lady Lyanna Mormont endeavored to broach the silence when no one else had the courage to do so. "Why?" she asked. "Why seat a Northerner on the throne alongside you? You would truly be willing to give the North such power?" The other lords seemed to share her doubts, and awaited the Queen's response with bated breath.

Daenerys sighed. Her wooden chair creaked as she slumped back down into it, as if defeated. "My heart belongs to Jon Snow," she answered quietly. A wave of shocked whispers transmitted through the Hall with her revelation. "I would seal our alliance in law with marriage, and raise him up to be King beside me. But if that does not satisfy you, my lords, then when this war is over, I will grant the North its independence if you ask it of me. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."

 _I knew it_ , Arya crowed with satisfaction. _They are lovers!_

Howland Reed rose and stepped forward with a strange glint in his eye. He drew his sword, planted the point on the ground, and knelt in front of the high table. "Queen Daenerys," he said. "Lord Snow. I have been a loyal bannermen and friend to the Starks for decades, and I will not forsake that relationship now. I do not know you well, Queen Daenerys, but I did know your father. I can tell, simply from your speech today and your actions in the past, that you are, indeed, nothing like him. And if my Lord trusts you, if he loves you as you claim to love him, then I will trust his judgement… my Queen. When the dead are vanquished, House Reed will fight beside you against Queen Cersei."

Jon and Daenerys both nodded in gratitude. "Thank you, Lord Reed," Jon said gravely.

Lord Glover drew his sword as well and raised it so the point was directed at Jon. "When we named you King in the North, I told you that I would regret not fighting beside you until my dying day. I said that House Glover would stand behind House Stark, as we have for centuries." He paused. "I will not forsake that vow. My every instinct warns me not to trust a Targaryen; but I trust you, and I trust Lord Bran. With the both of you vouching for her, I am prepared to accept her word. And in return, when this war is over, the Seven Kingdoms will see its first ever Northern King." He planted the point of his sword on the ground and knelt alongside Howland Reed. "The White Wolf and the Dragon Queen!" he shouted.

The Hall suddenly filled with the slither of metal against leather as the Northern lords drew their swords as one and echoed Lord Glover's chant: "The White Wolf and the Dragon Queen!"

Arya smiled and joined in. She watched as Jon and Daenerys both sought out the other's hand, intertwining their fingers and sharing a quick but loving glance. This time, the action was undisguised. They raised their hands high in the air in triumph, for all the North to see the unity of their bond.

* * *

 **Was that too cheesy? Too happy? Should there have been a fistfight or a larger falling-out between Jon and the lords? Or do you think it was realistic to imagine that they would honor their vows to stand by Jon and to trust in his and Bran's judgement about Daenerys in the face of the coming threat? Those were some of the things I had to balance when writing this chapter. Not quite sure how I did; let me know.**

 **Next up: Jaime**


	9. Jaime II

**Okay, so from here on out the chapters are going to get more difficult for me to write. As a result, I can almost guarantee I won't be uploading every day, but I'll try to shoot for keeping it to around 2-4 days between chapters if I can.**

 **I had very high hopes for this chapter when I first came up with the idea for it, but I'm not sure I executed it to the fullest potential. Let me know what you think.**

 **Huge thank you to brand new shiny beta KT Armstrong, you're a lifesaver.**

* * *

 **JAIME II**

It took the small battalion another few weeks before they were within sight of Winterfell.

By then, Jaime had seen about as much of the Northern wilderness as he could stomach. With every league they traveled north, the air grew colder and the snow fell harder. He thought his golden hand might have permanently frozen to his arm, but the whole area around his wrist was so cold he couldn't feel anything.

He'd only been to Winterfell once before, when he was Kingsguard to Robert Baratheon. It was that visit which set in motion the events that would lead to the War of the Five Kings.

Now he was returning there, to fight alongside men he had once spit on as fools and savages, forced together to stand against a common enemy. It seemed rather fitting, in a perverted sort of way; Jaime never really was one to appreciate the idea of "divine justice."

His eyes inadvertently found themselves settling their gaze on the tallest tower of the castle. It was a partial ruin, destroyed in a fire long ago, but the rubble on the outside provided enticing footholds for a skilled climber.

It was also the perfect location for an illicit coupling between a Queen and her twin brother, because no one ever ventured into the skeleton of a room at the top. No one except Bran Stark.

Jaime felt sick. He'd wondered for a long time what his reaction would be when he saw the two physical reminders of his greatest failure. He could barely handle the first one, and the damn Burned Tower was nothing but an inanimate object, a pile of broken bricks and half-scorched wood. How was he going to face the boy?

He settled himself with effort, and made a resolution to himself. If the Starks wanted to execute him for his crimes, he would fight against it tooth and nail. Not because he deserved to live; in all seriousness, what he deserved _was_ to be executed. From a purely objective standpoint, though, Jaime was a seasoned battle commander. He was a veteran of multiple wars, and even though he was not as skilled with his blade as he used to be, he would be a valuable asset in the fight against the dead. He wanted to do all he could to contribute to the War for the Dawn.

Of course, the Starks wouldn't necessarily see things from a _purely objective standpoint_. He would try to convince them to let him fight, but if they denied him, he would accept his fate. It was a difficult thing to quell man's natural instinct of self-preservation, but if the Stark boy wanted him dead no matter what Jaime argued, then quell it he would.

"You look like you're thinking some happy thoughts," observed Bronn dryly from beside him.

Jaime glanced at him sourly. "And you look far too chipper, considering we're about to ride into a castle full of people who want to kill us."

Bronn shrugged. "It's not me they wanna kill," he said. "Your brother's Hand of the Queen, and he likes me – we're friends, apparently – so I figure I'm alright."

"He likes me, too," Jaime pointed out. "He's my brother."

"Oh, aye," Bronn agreed. "But there's a small little difference between you and me that you seem to be forgetting."

"What?"

"Your last name is Lannister." With that, he spurred his horse forward. Jaime followed and caught up to him eventually, grimacing as he acknowledged the truth of the sellsword's words.

The sentries on the gates called out to them as they approached. "Halt! Who are you that brings a company of soldiers to our gates, outfitted in Lannister colors?"

"Their commander, Jaime Lannister."

Bronn coughed.

"And Ser Bronn of the Blackwater," Jaime added grudgingly.

"Jaime fucking Lannister?" The guard narrowed his eyes at them. "The fuck are you doing here, Kingslayer?"

"Honoring my pledge," he replied curtly. "I have reinforcements, and news from the capital. The Queen and Lord Snow will want to hear it."

The guard sneered. "Thirty men? These are your 'reinforcements'?"

"Oi," Bronn interjected impatiently. "Are you gonna let us fucking freeze out here or are you going to open the bloody gate?"

"We don't –"

"Ser Jaime?" The guard was cut off by a new voice, one that filled him with both trepidation and eagerness.

Brienne of Tarth stepped into view above the gate. She looked much the same as when he'd seen her at the Dragonpit. Her short blond hair was combed back, and she wore a silver metal breastplate that had been painted with a black Stark direwolf. Her sapphire blue eyes were wide, staring at him with a hopeful but guarded expression.

Seeing her again, Jaime found his throat momentarily constricted. He had no idea what to say to her. _Forgive me_ seemed utterly inadequate, but it was the only thing that his mind could come up with.

Brienne sent a runner to the Queen, and within minutes, Jaime, Bronn, and their men were through the gates and gathered in the main courtyard of Winterfell. Jaime looked for the tall blond woman after he dismounted, hoping that he'd be able to think of something to say if he could just talk to her, but she had disappeared.

He frowned to himself, but followed the guard that had come to escort him and Bronn into the Great Hall.

Jaime was initially concerned about how big a reception they'd be facing, but it turned out he needn't have worried. On such short notice, the Northerners had only had time to gather the most important of their leaders. None of the Northern lords were in attendance, for which Jaime breathed a brief sigh of relief.

Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen sat beside each other in the center of the table on the raised stone floor in front of him. They looked every bit the part of King and Queen, and he wondered if there was some significance to their positioning. To the Queen's immediate right was Jaime's little brother Tyrion, and to his right sat Lord Varys, the Spider.

Jaime met Tyrion's eyes, and he saw genuine happiness and relief there. He still felt a pang of anger and sorrow (and guilt) when he saw the dwarf, remembering how he had killed their father when Jaime set him free. But Tyrion did what he had to do, and even if some part of Jaime still hated him for it, he thought he also understood him a little better now.

He knew how it felt to be used by someone you loved, someone you wanted to love you in return.

On Jon's left was an auburn-haired young woman who could only be Sansa Stark. She had grown much since the last time he saw her, and he couldn't help but admire the beauty of her pale face and sharp blue eyes. But then he looked to her left, and his eyes fell on the one man he'd been most dreading meeting: Brandon Stark.

Like his sister, the boy had grown and aged. His hair was shorter now but still a dark, dark auburn that was almost brown. When Jaime looked at him, he saw the face of a ten-year-old boy staring back at him fearfully, clutching at air as he tumbled through the air. Once again, he felt the sharp sting of guilt. He shook his head, trying to clear the image, and studied Bran's face. He was oddly expressionless; it was like staring into the depths of a placid pool of water.

A shiver went down Jaime's spine. He wasn't sure where the thought came from, but somehow he suddenly knew that Bran had remembered exactly who pushed him out of that window. He resisted the urge to hang his head in shame.

 _I suppose it may be execution after all, then._

"Ser Jaime." Daenerys addressed him first. "We didn't expect you for another fortnight. Would you like to tell me why you are here early, with but thirty men? Where is the rest of the Lannister army?"

"At King's Landing with Cersei, I expect," he answered dryly. "She intends not to honor her pledge to ride north."

"Oh?" The Queen raised an eyebrow. "Well, that is unfortunate."

"If that's true, then why are you here?" asked Jon Snow. "Was it your plan to sabotage our forces?"

Jaime shook his head. "My sister planned to break her oath; I do not. I swore to ride north and fight the dead, so here I am, in the North, ready to fight the dead." He boldly met Jon's eyes as the two rulers studied him. "There is more. She has sent Euron Greyjoy and his fleet across the Narrow Sea to ferry the Golden Company back to Westeros. She intends to combine them with her own forces and take back the lands you conquered while we fight in the North."

"Is it 'we' already, Ser Jaime?" Lady Sansa said coldly. "You've just told us your plans to betray us, and you would have us allow you to join us?"

"My sister's plans," Jaime corrected, equally brusque. "Not mine."

"Just as I suppose it was _your sister's_ plan to attack my father in the streets and kill his men and the captain of his guard? And I imagine it was also _your sister's_ plan to attack my brother Robb and his men on the field of battle? I assume, then, it was _your sister's_ idea for you to stand and watch as my grandfather and my uncle were murdered by Aerys Targaryen, only to then decide weeks later that it might be wise to put an end to his madness?" Her voice grew more and more furious and impassioned as she spoke. "And I would also guess that it was _your sister's_ plan for you to betray your oath to my mother by taking Riverrun? Or am I wrong, and those things were entirely _your_ doing?"

Each sentence she uttered drove the spike of shame further into Jaime's heart. But Sansa's ire also gave rise to his own; he didn't need to be reminded of his past. His mistakes were far too familiar to him.

Still, he couldn't help but notice that she mentioned nothing about pushing her little brother from a tower window, and that gave him some hope. But it also confused him. _Is it possible she doesn't know?_ That didn't make sense, because he was almost certain that Bran knew, and Bran would have undoubtedly told his family in turn. Was it possible, then, that Bran _didn't_ actually know it was Jaime?

He had no idea what to think anymore. But he did know that the dead _needed_ to be stopped, and Jaime could help these people do that, even if they didn't want his help. He would just have to convince them.

He breathed deeply, quenching his growing anger, and looked straight into Jon's eyes, trying to show them all his sincerity. "I've made mistakes in my life, I know that," he said. Sansa snorted. He ignored her. "I don't need you to remind me of them. But I would remind _you_ , Lord Snow, of the words you spoke in the Dragonpit. You keep preaching that we need to set aside our differences and fight together if we're going to survive. You were even willing to accept my sister's help – despite her crimes _far_ outnumbering mine – so I find it rather hypocritical that you would consider rejecting my aid."

Tyrion took this opportunity to interject. "If I may, Your Grace," he said quietly. "I know my brother; he is not an evil man, only a blind one. Our sister has kept him blinded by love for years, and I'm sure of all people, you can understand that." He shot a meaningful look between Jon Snow and Daenerys, and suddenly occurred to Jaime to wonder if the rumors that they were lovers were true. "But I believe that he is here, telling us of Cersei's treachery and offering his help, because he is genuine."

"You think he decided to abandon his lover?" Daenerys asked dryly. "Yet another broken oath."

"I think he finally came to his senses," Tyrion countered. He gave Jaime a sardonic smile. "Even idiots have their limits."

Jon and the Queen looked thoughtful. Sansa observed their expressions with fury and shook her head. "Jon!" she growled. "You can't seriously be considering letting him join our army."

"Sansa…" Jon's tone was weary.

"No! I know what kind of man Jaime Lannister is. He doesn't care about anything but himself, he –"

"He saved Lady Brienne's life."

Jaime's suddenly flicked his eyes to the right. The voice had belonged to Bran Stark, but it was flat, empty; a simple statement of fact.

"Brienne was forced to fight a bear at Harrenhal," he continued. "Ser Jaime jumped into the pit beside her and protected her. When he returned to King's Landing, he tried to temper Cersei's cruelty, but she wouldn't listen to him. She sent him to retake Riverrun, but he refused to attack the city. He resolved the siege peacefully, with no bloodshed, because he didn't want to take up arms against the Tullys."

Jaime's head spun. How did the boy know all these things? Even Varys' little birds weren't so extensive. But not only that… why in Seven Hells was _Bran Stark_ defending _him_ , the man who crippled him as a boy? _What is going on?_

Bran still wasn't done. "He returned to the capital again after that, and he was appalled by Cersei's destruction of the Great Sept. Since the war with Daenerys began, he's continued to try and reign her in. He tried to convince her to sue for peace after the Field of Fire. He didn't want thousands of innocent people to be caught in the crossfire, but Cersei wouldn't listen. Then she revealed her treachery to him after the Dragonpit, and when he refused to go along with it, she threatened to have him killed."

Jon Snow looked between his brother and Jaime. "Is this true?"

Jaime nodded wordlessly.

"His experience will be valuable, Jon," said Bran. "He should be allowed to help."

Sansa still wasn't convinced. Her deep blue eyes were like a raging sea, threatening to sweep him away and drown him. "Jon, he's the Queen's twin brother. He breaks oaths; he has no honor, you can't –"

"Enough, Sansa," Jon said tiredly. "Bran is right. He's a better military commander than any of us. We could use his help."

Sansa's jaw tightened, but she nodded stiffly. Then she stood and stormed out of the Great Hall, throwing Jaime a glare on her way out.

"And who are you?" Daenerys' voice reverberated through the stone room. Jaime realized she was addressing Bronn, whom he'd almost forgotten was even there.

Bronn opened his mouth, but Tyrion beat him to it. "This is Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, Your Grace," he said, grinning. "He is a good friend of mine, and reliable. Varys and I can vouch for him."

Daenerys looked to the Spider in unspoken question, and he inclined his head respectfully in acknowledgement. "Very well," the Queen said. "If that is all… Jon and I have many matters to attend to. This council is dismissed."

As Jon pushed Bran in his wheeled chair behind Daenerys, heading out of the room, Jaime and Bronn approached Tyrion.

"I'm 'reliable' now, eh?" Bronn said, raising an eyebrow. "You'd better not ruin my reputation."

"Everyone thinks sellswords are the least reliable soldiers because they only fight for gold," Tyrion remarked. "As the man with all the gold, I've always found that makes them the _most_ reliable soldiers." He grinned. "I'm glad to see you've finally accepted my offer, Bronn. Double, right?"

Bronn grinned in return and shook Tyrion's proffered hand.

When he stepped aside, Jaime and Tyrion regarded each other silently for a few moments. Then Jaime bent down and embraced his brother.

"I know it was hard for you, brother," the dwarf said softly. "But you've chosen the right side."

Jaime allowed himself to express more to his brother than he would have anyone else. "I couldn't save her. All this time I've spent guarding her back, watching over her, and the one thing I couldn't protect her from was herself."

"You can only save someone who wants to be saved," Tyrion answered. "That's the difference between them. Daenerys is terrified of the madness in her blood, and does everything she can to resist it." He shook his head ruefully. "Cersei gave herself to the madness long ago."

* * *

To Jaime's surprise, he was given a respectable guest chamber in one of the towers. He was allowed to move freely about the castle, without having to surrender any of his weapons. He imagined they must be pretty desperate to allow him that much freedom so quickly.

The meeting to decide his fate had left Jaime shaken and confused. He felt incomplete, as if there was something he was supposed to do, but he had only done it halfway. He didn't know where the feeling came from, but it bothered him. After he dumped his things in his chambers, he decided that he needed to talk to Bran Stark.

He walked aimlessly around the castle, asking the first person he saw where he could find the boy. The man glared at him resentfully, but muttered, "Check the godswood. That way." He pointed, and Jaime followed the path he indicated until he reached an iron gate.

He pushed it open and entered the godswood. The multitude of varied trees packed so closely together wove a dense canopy of leaves over old, packed earth, covered with humus and moss. At the very center of the wood stood the heart tree – the white weirwood tree, hanging over a pool of black water. Everything was blanketed in a layer of soft white snow.

Bran was indeed there, seated in the strange wooden chair with wheels on it that allowed him to move around easier. A fur cloak was draped across his useless legs. Jaime felt his guilt and remorse rise to the top once again as he laid eyes on the contraption Bran rarely left. _I forced this life on him_ , he thought. _He will have to sit in that chair for the rest of his days because of me_.

The boy turned as he heard Jaime's approach but said nothing. Jaime walked right up to stand in front of him.

"You remembered," Jaime said. It was half a question, seeking confirmation.

Bran nodded once.

Jaime shook his head in disbelief. "You knew it was me and you didn't tell them. Why not?"

"Sansa already wanted to kill you. If they had known, Jon would have ensured it happened."

"I tried to kill you by pushing you off a tower! I crippled you for life! Don't you _want_ me to die for it?" Jaime's eyes stung, but Bran hardly reacted. He couldn't understand why the boy was so calm about it. Didn't he want revenge? Or justice?

"I was bitter about it for a while. I always wanted to be a knight in the Kingsguard, you know. You were one of my heroes, you and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. I wanted to be just like you."

His admission made Jaime feel even worse, if that was possible. Bran had _admired_ him, almost idolized him even. And Jaime had tried to kill him. Even though he was (fortunately) unsuccessful, he had made Bran's greatest dream inaccessible forever.

"Why don't you hate me?" he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Why don't you want justice?"

"Because it doesn't matter what I want," was Bran's response. "And it doesn't matter what you did. The past is written; the ink is dry. All that matters now is the future."

Jaime tried to wrap his mind around that. He supposed after spending so much time around the snakes in King's Landing, the idea of letting go of one's personal wants and feelings was incomprehensible to him. King's Landing was _ruled_ by personal wants and feelings.

"You still feel guilty." The observation was blunt.

"Of course I feel guilty," said Jaime, stopping himself just short of snapping at him.

"That's good, I suppose. It means you're still human. The moment you start taking pleasure in senseless destruction – like your sister, or the Mad King – that is the moment you are lost."

"Everything that has happened to each of us in our lives has led us _here_ : to the same place, at the same time, to fight together against the same enemy. We all have our roles to play in the Great War, Ser Jaime, even you. It may have even been your role to perform the actions that would enable me to fulfill mine. You started me down the path to becoming the three-eyed raven. When you think about it from that perspective, I should almost be thanking you."

 _This boy speaks with centuries of maturity._

But Jaime shook his head. "How can you say that so easily? I don't deserve your forgiveness, or anyone's."

"And yet here you are, alive, given the chance to fight with us. No one deserves forgiveness, Ser Jaime. That's the entire foundation of it. Forgiveness is never earned; it's freely given. And we have chosen to grant you our forgiveness."

"Why? Why? Why forgive a broken man? I'm a failure, I've always been a failure; a failure to my father, a failure to my King, a failure to everyone."

Bran abruptly raised his head and stared into Jaime's eyes. "'There are always lessons in failures,'" he quoted.

Jaime froze. He'd said those very words to Olenna Tyrell mere months ago when he took Highgarden. _You must be very wise by now,_ the Queen of Thorns had retorted.

He swallowed. "How… how do you know about that?"

"I'm the three-eyed raven."

It took a moment for him to place the old story. "You're a greenseer," Jaime realized.

"No," said Bran. "I am _the_ greenseer; the last greenseer."

He'd heard legends about men who could dream of the future or see visions of the past and the present. He always dismissed them out of hand. But if dragons and dead men were real after all… it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that Bran truly had these strange abilities. It would explain how he was able to know what Jaime said to Olenna.

"Why are you here?" Bran asked suddenly.

 _Is that a trick question?_ "To help you fight against the dead."

"But why?"

"Because my sister threatened to kill me; I couldn't stay with her."

Bran shook his head. "That isn't a reason. It's an effect. She threatened you _because_ you already intended to defy her wishes and ride north to fight. So why did you want to do that? What are you fighting for, Jaime Lannister?"

Jaime faltered. The question unnerved him more than he was willing to admit… mostly because he found he didn't know the answer.

All his life, he'd lived by two things: honor, as a knight, and love, for Cersei. Whenever those fundamentals came into conflict with each other, and he was forced to make a choice between them, he always made the same one: Cersei, and love. He made that choice over and over again until he thought any honor he might have had in the past was gone forever, and all that was left was his love for Cersei. So that was what he fought for; everything he did, he did for her.

The loss of his honor never bothered him until he met Brienne. She showed him the value of honor, and started him down the path to regain his own. Even as he did, he clutched onto his love for his sister, trying to turn her mind from cruelty whenever he could and simply obeying her when he couldn't. When he had returned to King's Landing after traveling with Brienne, he kept trying to avoid the choice – by choosing both.

When Cersei revealed her plot with Euron Greyjoy and her intentions to betray Jon Snow and Daenerys, Jaime faced the choice once again: Cersei or his own honor. It took that moment for him to realize that their love had frayed and faded beyond recognition. She was willing to have him killed for what he saw as the right choice. That was when he knew he could no longer allow her to control him.

He was faced with the choice for the final time, and he realized that it was no choice at all. Her love for him was gone, and his was but a shadow of what it used to be. He could no longer delude himself that it was still worth fighting for to try and salvage. So for the first time in his life, he chose honor over love.

A year ago, if someone asked him what he fought for, he would have said something like _family_ , or even just _Cersei_. But now, as Bran Stark waited patiently for his response, he couldn't come up with an answer.

He could have said _survival_ or _honor_ , and Jaime himself might have even believed it. But that didn't make it true.

He thought about what Bran said about forgiveness: no one deserves it, but they receive it anyway. It couldn't be that either; he didn't need to fight for something he'd already been given.

So what then _did_ he fight for? What had compelled him to honor his oath and journey north?

The answer came to him in a moment of clarity. "Respect," Jaime whispered. "Atonement. Redemption for everything I've done."

Bran smiled emotionlessly.

"You said we all have a role to play," said Jaime, almost desperately. "What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to make a difference in this war?"

The Stark boy shook his head. "I can't tell you that, because I don't know. But I know that you _do_ have some part to play, before this over. I promise you that. Serve faithfully, Jaime Lannister, and you will know your time when it comes."

* * *

 **Next up: Daenerys**


	10. Daenerys III

**So this is one that I'm sure a lot of you have been waiting for. We only get to see one side of it here, so you'll have to be patient for the rest. Fair warning, slight bit of smut at the beginning. It's nothing big (and it's my first attempt at ever writing something like that so I was a little tentative with it) but I should still mention it anyway.**

 **Special thanks to my fantastic beta KT Armstrong, truly the best I could have asked for.**

 **Also, I want to thank everyone again who's taken an interest in this story. We just passed 200 followers (!) yesterday, and it makes me so happy to see all the positive responses you guys have left. It gives me the motivation to keep going :)**

* * *

 **DAENERYS III**

The night after the council, Jon and Daenerys openly retired together to Jon's chambers. Jon had granted Sansa the Lord's quarters, giving Dany the opportunity to see his childhood room. It was medium-sized, but in a cozy, not cramped, sort of way. The pipes of heated water that flowed through the walls and the fireplace in the corner kept it warm and relaxing. The grey stone was similar enough to the walls of Dragonstone as to be a comforting reminder of home.

She stared at the man showering kisses down her body. The two of them laid on top of the furs in the bed. Their naked bodies were pressed together, as Jon lovingly peppered Dany with attention.

She writhed underneath him as he brushed his lips slowly down her neck. "I can't believe you did that," he murmured against her pale skin.

"Did… what?" Dany asked breathlessly. It was impossible to focus with his mouth working on her body like that.

"You admitted you loved me… in front of all. The. Lords." His voice was a whisper, husky and low, and he punctuated the last three words by planting a short kiss on each of her nipples and then her belly.

"Couldn't help it," she muttered back. "Thought it was… only way to get them to agree. Don't care what they think. 'M tired of arguing about the past. Want people to stop hating me because of my father…" She was so distracted she couldn't even form complete sentences. Each touch of his lips sent lightning bolts of warmth and pleasure shooting through her.

"How about" – he moved lower, kissing her inner thighs – "let's not talk about your father while we're doing _this_ ," he suggested.

Dany laughed. "Mmm, oka – ooh!" His mouth brushed across her sensitive nub, and her response was cut off by a groan of pleasure.

Jon abruptly pulled away. He positioned himself on top of her and brought his lips back up to hers. She eagerly melted into the kiss, their tongues dancing around each other, and then she felt him enter her. She moaned, and he grinned against her lips.

She would never get tired of that sensation. With him inside her, hitting her in just the right spot with every thrust, she felt full and complete. Sex had never been like this for her before. When she was with Drogo, they fucked, rough and with little passion. With Daario, it was almost sport, purely for pleasure. But with Jon… with Jon, they made love, in the truest sense of the phrase.

To the extent that she could still think coherently, she realized that she had been wrong earlier, when she thought of Dragonstone as her home. This _is my home_ , Dany thought. _My home is with Jon… wherever that is, wherever he might be_.

She stared into his stormy grey eyes as they moved together, reveling in the love and adoration she saw in them. _Love comes in at the eyes_ , her handmaiden Doreah had told her once. Never had she thought that statement more true than she did now, with Jon.

Within minutes, they reached their climax as they came together. Jon collapsed beside her, breathing heavily. Dany's body was wracked with shudders from her pleasure as she lay on the bed, panting. She rolled to the side and curled up against Jon's body, wrapping an arm around him and resting her head on his chest.

He hummed contentedly as he gazed at her tiredly, his eyes half-lidded. "You are the most incredible woman I have ever known," he told her.

"Have you known many?" she teased.

It was meant as a harmless jest, but he tensed underneath her, and she worried she had said something she shouldn't have. She was about to apologize and retract her question when he took a deep breath and heaved a sigh, threading his hand through her unbraided hair.

"Not intimately," he said quietly. "Only one other."

By his solemn tone, she guessed it hadn't ended well. She didn't want to make him uncomfortable, but she wanted to learn about this mystery woman. "Who was she?"

"A wildling girl. I met her when I was sent to infiltrate Mance Rayder's army. She was beautiful; red hair, kissed by fire. She was crass, but passionate, and she was one of the best archers I've ever seen."

"What happened?"

He sighed again. "It was doomed from the start," he lamented. "I was supposed to ingratiate myself with them so they trusted me, and then turn on them when they attacked Castle Black. They found out, of course, and I had to run. She chased me down and shot me full of arrows." He smiled sadly. "She only hit me in the legs, the shoulder. She didn't want to kill me. Later on, we encountered each other during the battle at the castle. She had an arrow nocked at my head. I don't know if she would have released it if one of my brothers hadn't shot her in the back."

He gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. "I held her in my arms as she died, and all I could think was how much of a fool I was to let myself care for her. And the boy who shot her… I wasn't sure if I wanted to hug him or kill him. Fate has a cruel sense of humor, I suppose; he was the one who stabbed me in the heart, so I ended up killing him anyway."

Dany traced the scar he mentioned tenderly, then kissed it. He shivered.

"Did you love her?" she asked him.

He stared into her eyes. "I thought I did," he whispered torturously. "Now I don't know. Maester Aemon once told me that love is the death of duty. But I betrayed Ygritte for the sake of my duty to the Watch, so how could it have been love? And when I think about doing the same thing to you…" He shuddered. "I don't know that I could."

"I know, Jon," she consoled him softly. "I know. I'm sorry you had to make that choice. I pray that it will not be required of either of us in the future." Then she frowned. "Aemon… is that not a Targaryen name?"

"Yes. He would have been your… great-great uncle, I think. He abdicated the throne to his brother and joined the Night's Watch. He was over a hundred years old when I first met him, but wise and just as sharp as I'm sure he was as a young man."

"'Was'… is he dead?"

Jon paused. "Yes," he answered. "I'm sorry."

Dany sighed. "Another relative of mine I will never know. My family is gone, and all I will ever know of them I have to hear from others."

"Hey…" Jon cupped her cheek and drew her eyes up to his. "You have a family here now. We aren't married yet, but when this war is over, we will be, and then we will _officially_ be your family. But even before that, me and Arya and Bran and even Sansa, all of us can be your family. They may not accept it yet, but I meant it when I said that everyone will come to see you for what you are. They'll all come to see you the way I do." He brought their faces together and their lips met once more.

"And what if they don't?" She was only half-joking; a part of her _was_ concerned that the Northerners would never be able to accept her, no matter what they'd said earlier that day.

"They will," he insisted confidently. "And if they don't, then what does it matter? You'll always have me, I promise you that. I am yours and you are mine, from this day, until the end of my days."

She smiled, grateful for his reassurances to her. "Until the end of my days," she echoed, and kissed him again.

* * *

Dealing with the Kingslayer had been an unexpected (and moderately unpleasant) surprise for Daenerys.

It was only her second time seeing Jaime Lannister, but the first time that she'd had the opportunity to actually speak to him. She had anticipated his appearance to rouse fury in her over the murder of her father, but she had been surprised to find herself less angry over that than she was over the crimes he had apparently committed against the Starks.

The reason for that was simple enough once she considered it. Aerys Targaryen was an evil man, a cruel and ruthless King. He would have razed a city and everyone in it to the ground if Ser Jaime hadn't betrayed him; even though he was her father, Dany couldn't deny that he deserved his fate.

The Starks, conversely, did not. They were good people, kind and just and fair, who simply found themselves in unfortunate conflict with a family that lacked morals or honor.

And yet… Jaime's speech and obvious remorse had a noticeable effect on Jon. As he kept reminding everyone, they needed every able fighter they could recruit for the fight ahead. Though Jaime was not as skilled with only one hand, his experience as a military commander would be invaluable. Besides, Dany and Jon had been desperate enough as to be willing to accept help from _Cersei_ ; if they could ignore everything she had done against them, surely they could do the same for Jaime.

Of course, that didn't mean she needed to be _friendly_ with him. In fact, she intended to avoid interacting with him as much as she possibly could. She would be courteous if she encountered him, but she would prefer not to be forced to pass judgement about her true feelings regarding the man.

Predictably, Sansa was less than pleased with Jon's decision. As Dany departed the Great Hall afterwards, she saw her pull him aside into an unoccupied hallway, and her raised voice followed Dany as she walked away. Jon, she noticed, never raised his to match. She wasn't close enough to make out what they were saying, and she didn't want to eavesdrop, so she walked away before anyone noticed her presence.

She was still learning her way around Winterfell, and she took a wrong turn and ended up on a balcony overlooking the training yard. Instead of continuing on to her and Jon's chambers, as she'd originally intended to do, she decided to stop and observe the men for a little while.

Shortly, Jon – fresh from his argument with his sister and likely needing to blow off some steam – emerged out into the snow-covered yard. He had shed his cloak, opting to wear only his boiled leather armor and his pants. He was followed by the other knight Ser Jaime brought with him – Ser Bronn? – who had changed into a similar outfit.

Bronn offered to be Jon's partner, so he nodded and they both headed over to a weapons rack. They each pulled out a blunted steel training sword, and within moments, had started circling each other intently. Then Bronn stepped forward and swung at Jon, and the fight began.

Dany watched with admiration as she watched Jon fight. He was strong, but graceful, every movement calculated and precise. Bronn was skilled, too, it seemed, but Jon was steadily pushing him back.

"He's good, isn't he?" said a voice beside her.

Startled, Dany turned her head.

Arya Stark was standing next to her at the rail, her hands clasped behind her back as she spectated the duel. Dany noticed she shared her grey eyes and dark hair with Jon, features the other Stark children lacked. After a moment, Dany turned her attention back to Jon and Bronn.

"Yes, he is," she said.

"Not as good as he could be, though," Arya added. When Dany turned to look at her questioningly, she indicated Jon with a nod as he blocked a strike from Bronn. "That last parry was slow. It was a feint from Bronn, one he didn't read. He only saved himself from a solid whack on the head because he was able to react at the last moment and bring his sword around."

"Forgive me, Lady Arya, I'm afraid I'm rather ignorant of the subtleties of swordplay. But if he possesses the reactions to block the strike, isn't that just as useful as reading a feint?"

She got the impression Arya was amused. "It can be," she replied, then smiled wistfully. "'But the seeing, the true seeing, that is the heart of it.'" She turned to face Dany. "And I told you… it's just Arya. I'm not a lady."

She hadn't once called her "Your Grace," Dany noticed. She could tell Arya wasn't one for niceties – including honorifics, apparently – so she didn't begrudge her the omission. Besides, from what Jon had said about her, she seemed like the type of person Dany would enjoy the opportunity to know better.

"You seem to know quite a bit about swordplay… Arya," she said. "Jon said you were always more interested in wielding a sword than a needle."

This time, she _knew_ Arya was amused. The young Stark girl grinned wryly and said, "Why not both?" Then she stroked her chin thoughtfully. "What else has Jon said about me?"

Dany tilted her head. "Did I live up to your image of Queen Visenya?"

Arya snorted. "How often have you two talked about me?"

"Only once."

"And how, I wonder, did that subject arise?"

Dany recalled the night she'd learned of Viserion's resurrection, when Jon had tried to comfort her by telling her stories about his siblings when they were younger. Her hands tightened on the rail, her fingernails digging into the wood, as she tried to reign in the memory of her sorrow.

Arya's brow furrowed as she observed the Queen's reaction. "I'm sorry, I –"

"No," said Dany. "It's alright. If we're going to trust each other, we need to be honest with each other." She took a breath and settled herself. "Jon was trying to comfort me after… after my dragon's death. He told me stories about you and your siblings from your childhoods to try to make me feel better; take my mind off the horrible news I'd learned."

Arya listened in silence, a contemplative look on her face. Then she said, very softly, "Jon cares about you. More than I've seen him care for anyone else. I can tell you care for him as well. I love him, too, and I trust him more than anyone. I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt because he trusts you, but now I don't think you need it. You're a good woman, and you'll be a worthy Queen."

"Thank you, Arya, your words gladden me." She hesitated. "Although, I wonder… would you, perhaps, be willing to give me some lessons?"

Arya's lips twitched, and after only a moment of deliberation, she nodded. "Of course, Your Grace," she said, and to Dany, she felt like Arya had suddenly deemed her worthy of the title. She experienced a definite rush of pride and satisfaction at that. "I'll have a sword made for you based on your height. Do you have any specifications?"

"I'll leave that to the expert to decide. I expect you know what's best."

"As you wish." Arya bowed and began walking away. She'd only taken a few steps when she stopped and turned back. "I like you, Queen Daenerys," she said, "And I know Jon cares about you a great deal, possibly even loves you. So I want you to know that if you hurt him, I'll cut out your insides and feed them to Ghost."

"If I hurt him," Dany replied seriously. "I'll give you the knife."

Arya smiled, then nodded. A few moments later, she was gone.

Dany turned back the training yard and resumed watching Jon cross swords with Ser Bronn. They were beginning to tire; their movements were much slower and more careful than they'd been at the start. She wasn't sure who was going to end up the victor. At this point, if either one of them lost focus for a moment, that would likely mean defeat.

But before the duel could end, a rather large man came waddling quickly out into the yard, huffing profusely. Both men halted the fight. When Jon saw the man approaching him, his face brightened and he broke out into a smile.

"Sam!" The two men embraced. "They told me you were here. How are you?"

The man, apparently named Sam, smiled. He was equally happy to see Jon, but he also appeared slightly uncomfortable. "It's great to see you again, Jon," he said. "Do you have a moment? Bran and I need to talk to you."

Jon glanced at Bronn, who shrugged. "Aye, we were just finishing up here," said Jon. "What is it?"

"Bran and your… sisters are waiting in his chambers," Sam said, ignoring the question. "Where is the Queen?"

Dany took that as her cue to descend from the balcony. She stepped carefully down the wooden stairs, being cautious not to slip. She strode over to Jon and Sam. "I am here," she said.

"Your Grace," Jon greeted, inclining his head. "Sam, this is Queen Daenerys Targaryen. My Queen… this is my friend Samwell Tarly. We were brothers in the Night's Watch. I sent him to the Citadel to train to become a maester."

Dany froze. Samwell Tarly… _No._ Did Lord Randyll have another son? If he did, and this was him… did he know what had happened to his brother and his father? She expected not, if he was still standing so calmly in front of her.

She felt a pang of guilt, but she squashed it quickly. She had been ruthless against Tarly and his men, but she still believed she made the right choice. _Sometimes strength is terrible_. Besides, if Sam didn't know what had happened, now was neither the time nor place to inform him of it.

She schooled her features into a respectful smile. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Samwell Tarly," she said.

"You as well, Your Grace," he replied, bowing.

"Now then, you say you have something to discuss with us?"

Once again, Sam seemed discomfited. But he nodded and said, "Follow me, please."

He led the way through the keep, winding through the stone hallways, until they came to a wooden door in one of the towers. Sam knocked on it twice, then pushed it open.

The room was surprisingly sparse. The floor was almost entirely devoid of anything; Dany supposed Bran preferred to have as much open space as possible, to maneuver his wheeled chair more easily. A hearth took up half of the far wall, and Bran sat in front of it. Arya and Lady Sansa were sitting on the edge of the bed, having arrived already.

"Bran," Jon said as they walked in. "What's going on? What is it you need to tell me?"

Sam shut the door behind them, and they stood together in the center of the room. He shuffled awkwardly. "Before we say anything, you should know… it might be best if what we tell you here stays between the six of us for now."

Jon's brow furrowed, perplexed, but he agreed. Dany and the others nodded as well.

"This is going to be a shock," Sam said, eyeing Jon. "But I promise you it's true."

"Would you mind getting to the point?" said Jon impatiently. "What is this about?"

"It's about your mother," Bran said suddenly. He was staring into the fireplace.

Jon stiffened. "My mother?"

"And your father."

"Lord Stark? What does –"

"Ned Stark is not your father, Jon."

Dany blinked in shock. _What? Then who…?_

The words had a far greater effect on Jon. His eyes went wide, his mouth dropping open. "What… what do you mean? How is that possible? Fath – Lord Stark always told me I had his blood."

"You do. Stark blood, at least. But not from him… from your mother. Your mother was his sister, Lyanna Stark. And your father… your father was Rhaegar Targaryen."

The words were delivered flatly, but they seemed to suck all the air out of the room at once. Everyone – except Sam, who was looking extremely concerned for Jon – wore matching expressions of disbelief. But Jon was by far the most stunned of all of them.

The blood drained from his face, and he stumbled backwards to lean against the door. His fists clenched and unclenched at his side, his mouth opening and closing uselessly.

Dany wasn't sure what to think. Part of her was ecstatic; until just seconds ago, she'd believed she was the last living Targaryen. To discover that she wasn't alone after all… it filled her with joy.

But she knew Jon wasn't seeing it that way, especially when he spoke. "Wonderful," he all but spat. "So I'm still a bastard, only now, my father is _not_ the most honorable man in Westeros, he's Rhaegar bloody Targaryen, the man who kidnapped and raped my au – my mother."

"He didn't," Sam said softly, as if afraid that if he spoke too loud, Jon would lash out at him. "He didn't kidnap her, Jon, or rape her. They ran away together. They loved each other. And… you aren't a bastard, either. Rhaegar annulled his marriage to Elia Martell and married Lyanna in secret in Dorne. You're legitimate, Jon… a legitimate Targaryen, the son of Rhaegar."

For a moment, Jon was utterly, frighteningly still. Then in one sudden motion, he spun around, flung the door open, and walked out of the room. The door slammed shut behind him.

Dany winced as it hit the doorframe. She made to follow Jon, but Sam called her back. "Err, Your Grace, I think we should give him some time on his own," he said solemnly.

She didn't like it, but she nodded grudgingly. Then a thought occurred to her. "Wait," she said. "If Jon is the legitimate son of my brother, then…" She faltered. "He's the rightful heir to the Iron Throne," she whispered.

Ever since Viserys died so long ago, Dany had lived her life believing that it was her birthright, her _duty_ , to take back the throne of her ancestors. Her whole world, her whole sense of purpose was based around the idea that the Iron Throne belonged to her. Now, to hear that it was all a lie, it was like having all of her foundations ripped out from under her.

But then she tried to view things from Jon's perspective, and suddenly, her problems seemed far more insignificant in the face of his world being turned upside down.

He, too, had just discovered that his entire life was based around a lie, only on a far greater scale than Dany. He needed her right now; if she truly loved him, she should be able to set aside her own insecurities and go to him.

"So Jon is actually… our cousin?" asked Sansa hesitatingly.

Sam opened his mouth to answer, but Arya cut him off. She stood and shook her head vehemently. "No," she said. "He's our brother."

"But Arya, you just heard –"

"No," she repeated, more forcefully. "I don't care if he's Rhaegar's son. Ned was his father as much as he was any of ours. He sheltered him, he raised him, he taught him; he lived with the shame of bearing a bastard his whole life to protect Jon from King Robert! This doesn't change anything, not for me. He still has Stark blood; he's still my brother."

After a while, Sansa nodded shamefully. "You're right. I'm sorry, Arya."

"I need to talk to him," Dany said. Her voice came out far more hoarse than she would have preferred.

Sansa and Arya glanced at each other. "You're probably the one he –"

They were suddenly interrupted by a screech. A shadow flew past the window. Dany's heart thumped in her chest. "No…" she breathed.

She threw the door open and bolted out into the hallway, ignoring the calls of the Starks behind her. She raced through the castle, her feet pattering on the stones, until she reached the main courtyard. One of the sentries was standing in the middle, staring out the gate with a stunned expression on his face.

"Where did he go?" Dany demanded.

"He walked out the g-gate," the guard stammered. "Then the green d-dragon just landed in f-front of him, and he climbed on it and f-flew away."

"Which way?" she snarled.

The guard pointed north.

Dany rushed out of the gate, into the open field. "Drogon!" she yelled.

Within seconds, the black dragon roared and dropped out of the late afternoon sky, slamming into the ground with an enormous crash. He lowered his body to the ground and allowed Dany to climb onto his back. Once she was settled, his wings gave two great flaps and he took to the air.

"Follow Rhaegal, Drogon," she told him in High Valyrian. At her command, he headed north, tracking the scent of his brother.

* * *

 **Sorry to leave it at that, but you'll have to wait two more chapters for Jon's reaction (evil smile).**

 **But on the bright side... Tormund is next up.**


	11. Tormund I

**Don't have much to say about this chapter...**

 **Special thanks to my wonderful beta as always, KT Armstrong. She says this is one of the best ones so far :o**

* * *

 **TORMUND I**

Tormund Giantsbane had lived his entire life in the bleak and unforgiving wilderness of the Real North. Over the years, he'd seen things there that would have made any kneeler shit their breeches and cry for their mother: walking corpses, undead bears, mammoth mating rituals. But even he had never encountered anything that terrified him as much as the great blue beast they now faced.

Mere weeks ago, he thought he was one of the luckiest men alive to have the opportunity to witness dragons in action (and fighting on _his_ side). At the frozen lake, he knew in his bones that they were as good as dead… until the Dragon Queen showed up in the nick of time. He'd never been more relieved in his life – not that he would ever admit it, of course.

But it was short-lived, as the Night King speared one of the dragons out of the sky with all the ease he might skewer a deer. At the time, he'd been so shocked that a dragon could be killed so easily – let alone the simple fact that they _existed_ – that he hadn't even considered the possibility that the Night King might be able to raise him from the dead.

Yet there the beast was, diving through the air, blue fire streaming from his maw. His scales (Tormund assumed it was a _he_ ), once pale gold and cream, were now a dark, stormy sapphire. His wings were mottled with holes, but that didn't seem to impede his speed or maneuverability. In fact, the undead dragon seemed somehow faster and more deadly than he had been in life. His icy pale eyes were dull and savage. On his back, the Night King gazed on with the same cruel indifference his expression always contained.

All around Tormund, the world rumbled and shook. The air was split with thundering cracks as the wight dragon bombarded the Wall with each pass, his fiery breath carving off enormous sections of the ice that fell to the ground hundreds of feet below. Men screamed as the wooden steps and buildings that made up Eastwatch began to shift and splinter.

"Run!" Tormund yelled at no one in particular. "Run!" As a fighter of the free folk, the idea of fleeing grated on his pride, but he wasn't stupid enough to be concerned about that now. They had no chance of taking down that dragon; he knew it, everyone knew it. The Wall was going to come down, and there was nothing they could do about it. The only thing they could do now was to run; to spread word of the Wall's destruction and warn others.

He headed for the nearest set of stairs, but beside him Beric grabbed his shoulder and shook his head. "That way!" he shouted over the cacophony of screams and cracks, pointing along the Wall. "We can't go to the bottom; Eastwatch is doomed! We need to go west, to Castle Black!"

Tormund nodded in agreement, and the two men took off along the path at the top of the Wall.

They weren't a moment too soon.

A sound like the upheaval of a mountain filled the night. The Wall gave a great shudder, and then all at once, it began to collapse. The blue dragonfire had finally weakened its integrity to the point that its own weight worked against it. In an enormous landslide of ice, the entire structure started to collapse.

The building of the Wall took decades; its destruction was complete within seconds. The air became clogged with snowy dust and infinitesimal particles of ice. When it cleared, Eastwatch and the entire section of the Wall that had supported it was gone. The only evidence it had ever been there was the tidal wave of water that rose up from the Bay of Seals to crash against the cliffs.

Safe (for now) further along the path on the Wall, Tormund and Beric stared in horror. It was one thing to accept that the Wall was going to fall; it was completely another to witness it happen and behold the aftermath.

In the darkness, Tormund saw the dragon fly over the gap and roar. At his signal, the army of the dead moved forward, streaming through the breach and into Westeros. But instead of marching south, the army turned west.

"Gods help us all," he breathed.

"There is only one god, my friend," said Beric. "And the Lord of Light is doing everything he can to ensure the coming of the dawn."

"Fuck your 'Lord of Light.' Lot of good he did for that priest of yours."

"Thoros knew the risks when we went north, as did we all. He fought, and now he rests."

"Never stop fighting, red man," Tormund grumbled. "Never stop fighting."

Beric looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "Come," he said. "The dead are going west. I fear the Night King wishes to obliterate the Watch. A symbolic revenge, perhaps."

"Not revenge. How many castles are there between here and Castle Black?"

"Seven."

"Are they all manned?"

Beric understood the conclusion Tormund had made, and a grim look passed over his face. He nodded.

Tormund cursed. "How many men?"

"Few," said Beric. "Two hundred, maybe less."

"Two hundred more soldiers for the army of the dead."

"Not if we warn them."

"It will take too long. We need to go straight to Castle Black."

"Those men will die if we don't –"

"I know that!" Tormund growled. "Those are mostly free folk manning _your_ fucking castles! You think I want to let them be slaughtered? We don't have a choice. If the dead stop to attack every fortress between here and Castle Black, we have a chance to beat them there. We have to leave now."

After a moment, Beric agreed.

They made good time traveling atop the Wall. The path was clear and even, and the torches and braziers alongside it kept them warm. When they needed to rest, they did so in one of the many wooden shelters built as guard posts and watch towers. But they tried to avoid resting as much as they could bear; the dead didn't sleep or grow tired, they knew, so they pushed themselves as hard as they could to reach Castle Black before the army.

It took them three days to arrive.

When they did, they were relieved to discover that the castle was not yet under siege. A sentry in one of the watch towers called out to them when he spotted their hobbled forms shuffling down the path.

"Who goes there?"

Beric answered him. "Ser Beric Dondarrion and Tormund Giantsbane, companions of Jon Snow. We need to see the Lord Commander."

The guard had no reason to distrust them (they were alive, after all, and all living men who garrisoned the Wall were now allies), so he nodded and summoned the lift from below. Tormund and Beric climbed into it, and the lift began to descend.

When they reached the ground level, they immediately rushed to the Lord Commander's Tower. Tormund barged through the door without bothering to knock; Beric gave him a disapproving look but followed behind.

At the unexpected sound of his door slamming open, the Lord Commander Eddison Tollett leapt up from his chair. When he saw who had entered his chambers, his face went from surprised (and slightly scared, Tormund noted, amused) to perplexed.

"Tormund," he acknowledged. "Ser Beric? I thought the two of you were left to command Eastwatch."

"We were," Beric agreed.

"Eastwatch is gone," grunted Tormund. "The Night King has a fucking dragon. He burned through the Wall; the whole end of it is in the Bay of Seals now."

Edd paled. He stumbled backwards and fell back into his seat. "We felt the tremors even here, but we didn't know what it was. They… they've breached the Wall?" His voice was a shocked whisper.

"Aye, and they're coming this way," Tormund said. "You need to get your men out of here and go south to Winterfell."

"Abandon Castle Black?" Edd asked. "But –"

Tormund slammed his fist on Edd's writing desk. "Listen, boy! Anyone who stays here dies, simple as that. This castle doesn't mean anything, it's worthless now that the Wall is breached. But more soldiers needlessly added to the Night King's army when they could be helping us fight against him… _that_ means something. Get your men out, _now_ , and start marching them to Winterfell."

Edd glanced at Beric, as if for confirmation, and Tormund wanted nothing more in that moment than to bash his head open in frustration.

 _Maybe then he'd listen to me._

Beric corroborated Tormund's statements as briefly as possible. Edd finally nodded, and said, "Alright. I'll gather the men and have them evacuate immediately." He stood and followed the other two out of the room.

On the way out, Edd grabbed a steward. "Summon everyone to the main courtyard," he ordered. "As quickly as possible."

The steward nodded and rushed off.

"How many men are here?" Tormund asked.

"Three or four hundred, maybe," Edd replied. "We don't –" He was cut off by a sound that chilled Tormund's blood.

A horn blast… then another… and another. Jon had taught him the system. _Three blasts… oh, fuck._

The dead had reached them.

Castle Black descended into a frenzy, and they stepped down into the courtyard. Men scrambled all around them as Edd tried desperately to restore order. "Shore up the gate!" he shouted. "Grab torches and swords, torches and swords!"

"No!" Tormund countered. "Fucking fools, we need to leave!"

"We'll never outrun them!" Edd argued.

"We have horses!"

"Not enough for all of us. But you and Dondarrion can get to Winterfell and warn Jon."

"Come with us," said Beric. "Jon will need you there."

Edd hesitated, then shook his head. "I'm the Lord Commander; my place is here. We only have a few horses, and I won't abandon my men." He quickly dashed off towards the stable.

"Fucking fool of a crow," Tormund muttered again.

"Foolish, but admirable," said Beric grimly. "He means to buy us time to escape. To keep the dead occupied here while we flee to Winterfell."

"I know we need to, but I don't like fleeing. It feels like kneeling."

"You're a warrior, Giantsbane. I'm sure you know the best warriors understand which battles they can win and which they cannot." Beric's voice lowered. "This is a battle we cannot win. And Jon would rather us flee and live than needlessly fight and die here."

Tormund clenched his fist. He knew Beric was right, but it still didn't sit well with him. "Doesn't mean I have to be fucking happy about it," he growled.

Beric inclined his head in agreement.

Momentarily, Edd returned, leading two grey palfreys by the reins. Both beasts were already saddled and prepared for a ride.

"These are two of the fastest and toughest mounts we have," Edd told them. "Ride hard and ride fast. There's a small town just south of here called Mole's Town. If it hasn't already been destroyed, warn them of the danger and get them to move south with you. There's an abandoned settlement called Queenscrown further to the southwest. You can rest there before you continue to Winterfell." He paused. "When you get there, tell Jon… tell him I'm sorry." He quickly turned away and left them without any further explanation.

Tormund and Beric mounted their horses and spurred them to the gate. The red-haired wildling took one last glance behind him at Castle Black and the Wall that rose behind it, knowing he would never see either structure again. Then he rode off through the gate with Beric.

They were almost a league away from the castle when a deafening screech sounded from above. The dragon swooped down out of the misty grey clouds, flames of azure bursting from his jaws. They could only watch from a distance as the King's Tower caught fire and toppled to the ground.

The army of the dead was nothing but a formless, writhing mass of black on the ground as they broke through the gate and swarmed into the castle and over the walls. The dragon made another dive and lashed out with his tail; the Lord Commander's Tower splintered like rotten wood and fell, showering the ground below with fractured shards of stone.

Tormund and Beric stared in silence as a thick column of smoke drifted up towards the sky. Then, wordlessly, they turned their horses away and began the journey south.

* * *

Mole's Town was thankfully still intact when they arrived.

It took them less than half the day to get there. When they rode into the town, they thought at first it had been abandoned; there was no one out in the streets. But then they saw flickers of faces in the windows of houses, and they knew the residents were simply hiding, terrified of what could be coming for them.

"People of Mole's Town," Beric called loudly. "The army of the dead has breached the Wall and will soon march on your homes. If you wish to survive, come with my companion and I. Take only what belongings you _need_. Speed is essential. Spread the word!"

The two of them continued to ride through the town, shouting out the message as they went. People streamed out of their homes to follow them, and very soon, they had a long train of people behind them.

"They're going to slow us down," Tormund warned.

"You wish us to leave these people to die?"

"No. But if we don't get to Winterfell…"

"We will have enough time to reach Winterfell," Beric assured him. "The Night King is marching _west_ along the Wall; you saw it just as I did. You guessed his intentions, and I believe you are correct. He will not come south yet."

"Maybe not, but if he does… we're fucked. These people aren't fighters. If the dead catch us, they'll be slaughtered like pigs."

"They won't catch us."

"I hope you're right."

Tormund waited while Beric rode around the settlement, making sure that everyone who wished to leave was among their group. Once he had done so, he returned to Tormund at the front and nodded. Tormund nudged his horse forward and led the way out of Mole's Town.

Their pace was far slower than he would have liked. Very few of the townspeople owned a horse; the town didn't even have a stable. As a result, nearly everyone was on foot.

It made him uneasy. He still believed the Night King intended to swell his army with the men of the Night's Watch from the other castles on the Wall, but if he was wrong, and the army of the dead caught up to them…

 _No point worrying about that unless it happens._

The distance to Queenscrown was perhaps two-thirds of the distance he and Beric had traveled between Eastwatch and Castle Black, but the people of Mole's Town were unaccustomed to prolonged travel and the terrain was rough. As a result, it took them nearly the same amount of time – around three days – to reach the holdfast.

When they arrived, Tormund nearly fell out of his saddle.

Two dragons, the black and the green, were settled on the fields outside the tower. From the distance, he could make out two figures standing in a tight embrace – one with medium-length dark hair, the other with long shining tresses of molten silver.

 _What are_ they _doing here?_

Beric noticed them, too. He shared a look with Tormund and turned to the refugees behind them. "Wait here," he instructed. Then they both urged their horses forward with haste.

At the sound of their approaching hoofbeats, Jon Snow and the Queen looked up and caught sight of them. They stepped away from each other, and Jon's eyes widened, a relieved half-smile breaking out on his face.

Tormund swung himself out of his saddle and landed hard on the snowy ground, sending up a puff of white dust. He and Jon clasped forearms, and Tormund pulled him in for a short hug and patted him on the back.

"When I heard Eastwatch had fallen, I thought you were dead," Jon said anxiously. "I'm glad you aren't, my friend."

Tormund frowned. "How did you know about Eastwatch?"

Jon shook his head. "I'll explain later." He nodded at the people gathering in the fields behind them. "Who are they?"

"Refugees from Mole's Town," Beric announced as he stepped forward and bowed to Jon and Daenerys. "Your Grace."

"Ser Beric," Daenerys acknowledged, before looking at Tormund. "I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."

Tormund looked to Jon, who nodded. "Tormund Giantsbane," he introduced himself, giving the Queen a slight nod. Her face soured very slightly when he didn't bow or address her as "Your Grace," and he had to restrain a snort.

"The de facto leader of the free folk," Jon elaborated. "Tormund has been a close companion of mine for years."

"I see."

"What are the two of you doing here?" Tormund asked.

Jon exchanged a glance with Daenerys, and something strange passed between them. "A long story," Jon said grimly. "One it appears we have not the time to tell." He changed the subject rather quickly. "What were you planning to do with these refugees?"

Tormund shrugged. "We were going to march with them to Winterfell," he said.

Jon looked thoughtful. "How many are with you?"

"Not many," said Beric. "Fifty, sixty."

"Winterfell is almost a fortnight away. Do they have supplies and shelter for the journey?"

Tormund shook his head.

Jon nodded. "I thought not. It's too far for them to travel as they are. They need somewhere closer to rest and wait while we send horses, food, and furs for them." He turned to Beric. "Ser Beric, will you escort these people to Last Hearth, southeast of here? We are already in the process of preparing transport for its evacuation. They will be safe there until we can come for them."

Beric bowed again. "Of course, Your Grace."

"But how will we get back to Winterfell?" Tormund asked.

Jon smiled and nodded at the dragons behind them.

Tormund struggled to contain his excitement. How many men would ever have the opportunity ride a dragon once, let alone _twice_? "They let you ride them on your own now?"

Jon's countenance faltered, and Daenerys placed a hand on his arm. He opened his mouth to respond, but Tormund preempted him by waving him off.

"Don't bother, I can guess… 'a long story,' eh?"

Jon's half-smile returned, and he inclined his head in agreement.

"Come on, my friend," he said. "Winterfell is waiting."

* * *

 **Hehe, sorry... I couldn't resist teasing the Jon/Dany moment at the end there ;) But what really happened between them? How did Jon deal with the revelation of his parentage? Tune in next time to find out, on Dawn of Spring!**

 **Next up: Jon (obviously)**


	12. Jon III

**You guys have been so patient; finally, here's the Jon chapter you've been waiting for :)**

 **Huge thanks as always to my wonderful beta KT Armstrong, who keeps me on my toes.**

* * *

 **JON III**

The knowledge Bran revealed reverberated through his consciousness like the stroke of a war drum. It sheathed itself as a metal spike in his mind, stealing his breath away and rendering him unable to speak.

He didn't want it to be true. He wanted to deny it, but he couldn't. It made too much sense.

Everyone always said his sister – no, _cousin_ – Arya looked like Lyanna, and he was the only one of them who shared the "Stark look" with Arya.

Daenerys's dragon Drogon allowed him to rub his snout, something he probably never allowed anyone else but Dany to do. Why would he have done that, unless he had been able to sense Jon's Targaryen blood?

He knew it in his bones to be true. The truth resonated in him, and it made him panic. He didn't see the others' reactions. His thoughts went blank, and before he knew what he was doing, he had turned on his heels and swept out of the room.

His body moved on its own. His legs carried him through the halls, down the stairs, and out to the front courtyard. One of the guards called out to him, but he didn't even register the words.

When he passed through the gate and out into the snowy fields, a shadow passed over him. With a great thud, the green and bronze dragon Rhaegal dropped out of the sky and landed in front of him. The dragon gazed at him intelligently, pushing his snout towards Jon.

He automatically reached out with one hand and stroked the beast's snout. _The dragon named for Rhaegar,_ he thought mutely. _The dragon named for my father…_

Rhaegal hummed contentedly and lowered his shoulders to the ground.

Without thinking, without even considering what was happening, he moved to the dragon's side. He climbed onto his foot, then up onto Rhaegal's back. The line of spikes on his back was sharp and dangerous, but he settled himself between two of them at the base of the dragon's neck.

Rhaegal waited until Jon was secure, then bounded forward and gave a few great flaps of his canvas-like wings. He leapt into the air and roared, and suddenly, they were flying.

The closest Jon had ever come to such a thing was watch duty on the top of the Wall. There, he'd felt powerful, gazing down at the world from above. He had wondered at the time if that was how a king felt.

It couldn't compare at all to the exhilaration of riding a dragon.

On Rhaegal's back, he didn't feel like a king; he felt like a _god_. They soared north over the Wolfswood and the Long Lake, far, far higher than the height of the Wall. It was the most liberating feeling of freedom he'd ever experienced.

The cold bite of the wind was even more stinging so high up, and slowly, the combined sensations were powerful enough to draw him from his stunned and mindless apathy. His shock slowly faded, and with the return of his coherence, his thoughts inevitably turned to the revelation of his true parentage.

The implications were staggering. According to Sam and Bran, Rhaegar had never raped his mother. They had loved each other, and ran away together to Dorne to be wed in secret. If that was true – and Jon had no reason to believe it was not, considering everything else Bran had been correct about – and he was indeed a legitimate Targaryen, then that meant that _Jon_ was actually the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, not Daenerys.

But did that even matter? If they were to be wed, then they would share the throne and the burdens of ruling. Was it of any consequence, then, who was truly the rightful heir?

As the thought of his potential betrothal to Daenerys crossed his mind, an uncomfortable lump formed in Jon's throat. She was his _aunt_ , his father's sister… she shared his blood, and they had already consummated their relationship. He thought that should have disgusted him; when it did not, he was partially ashamed.

He was confused, more confused than he could ever remember being. It was wrong to love her and to be with her, he knew it. He wanted to ignore the voice inside him that told him that, but he couldn't. As much as it pained him, he would have to… He swallowed uncertainly. He would have to end things with her, and he had no idea how he would find the strength to do that.

But as twisted and addled as his emotions were, there was one that simmered and boiled underneath them all: anger.

He was angry at Rhaegar Targaryen, the father he never knew. According to many, he was a kind and intelligent Prince, popular among the people and a skilled, though reluctant, warrior (much like Jon himself).

Yet despite his supposed wisdom, he had abandoned his frail and sickly wife to pursue a more beautiful woman. His actions at the Tourney of Harrenhal had been the small stones that began an avalanche, eventually leading to Robert's Rebellion and a bloody war. Thousands – perhaps hundreds of thousands – of people had died because of his recklessness, including himself and both of his wives, and all of their children except Jon himself.

He was angry at Ned Stark, too, that he had never told Jon the truth. He understood that he did it for Jon's own protection (Robert would have undoubtedly had him killed if he knew who he was), but surely Ned could have told him before he went to the Wall.

His Uncle Benjen once told him that if he knew what it meant to give up love and the chance to have children, he would never have taken the Black. If Ned had told him the truth before he left, would he still have joined the Night's Watch? Would he have forsaken his birthright if he had not mistakenly believed that he had none?

It was impossible to tell, and it no longer mattered. All that mattered was that he had been lied to his whole life, and he didn't even know who he was anymore.

Even as frustrated and resentful as he was towards Lord Eddard, he couldn't help but admire him as well. He had lived a lie for nearly two decades, carrying the stain of fathering a bastard to protect his sister's son from the wrath of his best friend. If this was how Jon felt about discovering that he'd been deceived, how must Ned have felt all those years while he perpetrated the deception? How much pain had it caused him to lie to everyone he ever knew, pretending that he had besmirched his honor and brought home his own illegitimate child?

 _But even his honor refused to allow him to tell me the truth the last time he had the chance to do so_ , Jon thought bitterly.

Rhaegal began to descend, and Jon looked down towards the ground. A small settlement was spread out below them, abandoned and decrepit. A lone tower of stone rose from the center, topped with merlons of painted gold. Jon had to search his memory for a moment before he recalled that the holdfast was named Queenscrown.

He frowned, wondering why the dragon had brought them here. Most likely, he understood that Jon wanted to be alone right now, and Queenscrown was far enough away that no one would be able to reach him before he returned, even if they knew where he'd gone.

Rhaegal landed with surprising grace on the snowy fields outside the dreary village; Jon was barely even jolted. The dragon once again bent his shoulders to the ground, allowing Jon to climb carefully down from his back. Then he walked around to Rhaegal's head, where he once again set his palm against the warm scales. He affectionately rubbed the dragon's snout as he would Ghost.

Again, Rhaegal hummed, a satisfied noise produced deep in his throat.

As Jon stood there with his hand on Rhaegal's head, he sighed. "If I didn't believe it at first," he said quietly. "I suppose there's no denying it now. You didn't even hesitate to let me ride you."

The dragon stared at him, his bronze eyes glittering with intelligence, but gave no reaction. Jon doubted he understood the Common Tongue, but he knew better than to underestimate a dragon. Besides, whether the dragon comprehended his words or not, he still needed to let them out.

"Your brother could tell, somehow," he mused. "Drogon smelled my Targaryen blood long before anyone else knew." He remembered the moment when they first arrived at Winterfell and Dany met Ghost for the first time. _I wonder what that says about her._

Once again, the thought of Daenerys caused a myriad of conflicting emotions to roil within him. With effort, he suppressed them. Rhaegal nudged his head into Jon's shoulder and whined, as if he understood Jon's inner turmoil.

"I don't know what to do, boy," Jon confided to his new friend. To his own ears, his voice sounded lost, helpless.

At that moment, a roar – louder than Rhaegal's – echoed around him. A great black shape soared out of the clouds and circled down to the ground, landing solidly on the ground next to Jon and Rhaegal.

He sighed again, and resisted the urge to turn around. Some part of him had known that she would come for him. The prospect filled him with equal parts dread and relief, just one more thread in the long rope of feelings he hadn't the slightest idea how to unravel.

"Your Grace," he said formally, still keeping his back to her.

He heard shuffling in the snow behind him, and then a soft, gloved hand tentatively touched his shoulder.

"Jon." Daenerys spoke softly. Her voice was filled with hurt, but somehow still loving. The emotion she imbued into his name nearly broke his resolve immediately. "I've said it before, but I'll say it again… don't shut me out. Let me help you."

Jon remained silent.

When he didn't reply, she continued. "I understand how you feel. You've just found out that your life was built on a lie. I understand that, truly I do. But this doesn't change anything."

"Doesn't change anything?" Jon burst out, whirling around angrily. Daenerys took a step backwards in surprise. As he saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, he tried to rein in his ire, but his frustration was still paramount. "It changes everything!"

In response to his angered outburst, Dany clenched her fist and shook her head adamantly. "No, it doesn't," she asserted strongly. "We still have a war to win, and we will still rule together afterwards."

"We're related, Dany," Jon ground out. "We can't – "

"What? We can't what? We can't marry because you are my brother's son? We are Targaryens, Jon, both of us; you should understand how ridiculous that sounds."

"So you think I should be okay with it simply because my parents aren't who I thought they were?"

"I think you should be okay with it because we love each other, Jon," she answered gently, calming. "Doesn't that matter more?"

"We shouldn't."

"Shouldn't love each other? How can you say that?"

"Dany…"

"No! Listen to me." She took a deep breath and placed both hands on his cheeks, cupping his face. "I grew up my whole life believing that I would one day be wed to Viserys, my brother. The Targaryens have been doing so for centuries; my own parents were siblings. I accustomed myself to that idea a long time ago. But if I had married Viserys, it would not have been for love. It would have simply been required of me. But with you… that isn't true. I don't care that we share blood, Jon. In fact, I believe…"

She paused. "I believe the fact that we are kin makes me more certain we are meant to be together. Think about it. We are the last two Targaryens, Jon, raised in opposite corners of the world. We've spent our lives thousands of leagues apart from each other. Yet here we are, drawn inexorably together." Her voice grew softer. "'My sword is yours, my life is yours, my heart is yours, now and always.' Those were your words to me. How can you so easily deny what we have?"

Her words were tantalizingly sweet, and he was on the verge of losing his will to fight her.

Everything she said were thoughts that he had refused to allow himself to consider in the time since he found out his identity. But did blood relation truly matter so much to him that he would cast aside the woman he had fallen in love with? Truth be told, even the Starks had married cousins with cousins and aunts with nephews in the past.

It still made him slightly uneasy, but Dany was right. Fate had brought them together, and his feelings for her had become greater than anything he'd ever experienced before. He swore a vow to her to love her and stand by her side forever, and he intended to honor that vow. She was right, she was always right; their love meant far more than anything else.

He covered her hands on his face with his own, that placed one on the back of her neck and leaned down to kiss her. "You're right," he whispered against her lips. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I just…" He trailed off.

"Shhh," she said. "I know."

He swallowed a lump in his throat. "I shouldn't have reacted that way. I should have stayed in Bran's room and discussed it all with you and the others. I shouldn't have left."

"I understand, Jon, and I don't fault you. I think, given what was revealed, you had every right to react that way. It was quite the shock."

He managed a soft chuckle. "That it was. But that is still no excuse for me to flee like a frightened child. But what bothers me more is that I hurt you." He stroked her cheek.

She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, shaking her head. "No," she said. "Never. The only way you could have hurt me is if you had allowed this new knowledge to destroy our relationship permanently, but you did not. I told you once before that I love you, that nothing anyone can say will ever change that, and I meant it."

He nodded. "And I as well." He sighed. "I understand why Lord Eddard did what he did, but that doesn't make it any easier. I wish he would have told me before we all left Winterfell. It's still difficult for me to comprehend that he wasn't my father."

Dany tilted her head. "He was, though."

Jon looked at her strangely.

"Oh, come now, Jon," she admonished. "Surely you aren't that foolish. It may have been my brother's seed that brought you into this world, but Lord Eddard truly was your father. He took you in as his own, and he raised you to be the man you are today. Your siblings – no, don't correct me – your _siblings_ understand that; you should, too."

Jon didn't know how he could have been so blind. The truth of his identity had shocked him to the core, so much so that he had managed to mislead himself into believing that nothing would ever be the same again.

He recalled his own words to Theon Greyjoy before they all departed Dragonstone: _You don't have to choose. You're a Greyjoy,_ and _you're a Stark._ He should have applied that sentiment to his own situation from the very beginning.

He supposed it made sense that it took Dany's perspective to help him recognize that belief for the farce it was. She understood how it felt to have lived life under a false pretense – for her, believing she was the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms – but was still outside his own thoughts enough to lead him to the truth that it really did change nothing. He still loved her, she still loved him, and no matter who was the rightful her, they would still rule together when the war was over.

When he thought about ruling, he realized that he had been so absorbed in his own struggles that, unlike Dany, he had completely neglected her own reaction and struggle to accept the truth. All of her goals, everything she had done since her brother died, had been designed to lead her to the Iron Throne, built on the belief that it was her birthright. Now, she had had that ripped away from her.

"Tyrion was right," Jon said dryly. "I am a Northern fool. Are _you_ alright, Dany?"

"It's not important," she said, trying to brush him away.

"It is," he insisted gently. "This is hard for both of us, I know, so tell me. You don't have to hide anything from me."

She sighed. "I mean it, Jon. It's not important. I don't care which of us is the rightful heir; I have had weeks to become used to the idea of sharing my rule with you. It matters not to whom the claim belongs, so long as we are together."

Her words touched him deeply, and he wrapped his arms tightly around her slim frame, never wanting to let go. He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes.

"Lord Varys told me a story about Lord Stark once, you know," Dany said suddenly.

Jon opened his eyes. "Did he?"

"He did."

"And what did the Spider have to say about Lo – about my father?"

Dany smiled at his self-correction. "He said that when he was Hand to King Robert, the Usurper found out I was pregnant with Khal Drogo's child and wanted to hire assassins to murder me, along with the babe. Of the entire small council, your father was the only one to voice his opposition. According to Varys, he argued adamantly against the killing of an innocent girl and her unborn child, simply because of what they _might_ possibly become. When the Usurper refused to listen to his advice, Lord Stark resigned his position as Hand."

The story brought a genuine smile to his face. "That does sound like him."

"Perhaps his actions involving you influenced his decision as well." She sighed. "Until Varys told me that, and before I met you, Ned Stark was 'the Usurper's loyal dog' to me. Viserys always talked about him with scorn, poisoning my mind with his lies. I wonder what my brother would have thought if he knew Lord Stark had taken the true heir to the Targaryen dynasty into his own home and risked the wrath of his King and best friend to shelter him."

"I wish you could have met him," said Jon softly. "The two of you would have gotten on wonderfully."

Dany smiled sadly. "I hear you are much like him. If that is the case, I would have been honored and humbled to meet him… and even more so to become his good-daughter."

At the reminder of their betrothal, Jon drew her even closer to him and kissed the top of her head.

He realized now that what they had was truly special, and he couldn't imagine how he had ever even considered sacrificing it. They were perfectly suited to each other, an equal balance. His honorable, reserved, and careful demeanor cooled her impulsiveness and anger. Her passion and conviction burned into him and gave rise to his own.

He was ice, to temper her fire; she was fire, to ignite his ice.

They stood there in their loving embrace, trying to convey to each other the depth of their emotions, until the sound of pounding hoofbeats drifted to their ears. They separated, and Jon turned.

Two men on horses were riding towards them, dressed in thick brown-and-grey furs. The one on the right had short black hair, and a cloth patch covered his right eye. The left one had bushy auburn curls and a long, distinctive beard.

Jon's eyes widened, and he felt himself flooded with relief.

The two dragons lifted their heads and growled warningly as Tormund and Beric approached, but Dany and Jon calmed them with comforting touches.

When he was close enough to Jon, Tormund nearly flung himself out of his saddle in his haste to dismount. Jon stepped up to him and they clasped forearms, before Tormund yanked him forward and smothered him in a crushing embrace with all the strength of a grown bear.

Jon expressed his relief that Tormund and Beric had survived the fall of Eastwatch, but it was lessened somewhat when they told him of the destruction of Castle Black, the Night King's apparent intention to wipe out the Night's Watch, and the evacuation of Mole's Town.

When Tormund asked why they had come to Queenscrown, Jon automatically turned to look at Daenerys, and decided he wasn't yet ready for anyone else to know. He settled for a very nondescript, "It's a long story."

He ordered Beric to escort the Mole's Town refugees to Last Hearth, and with a bow, the knight agreed without argument and returned to the column of smallfolk. They turned east, and slowly began to march away.

When they were out of sight, Dany mounted Drogon and Jon led Tormund to Rhaegal's side. "Come on, my friend," he said. "Winterfell is waiting." He climbed up onto the emerald dragon's back, then signaled the red-haired wildling to do the same.

Having climbed the Wall many times, Tormund had no problem mounting Rhaegal. Once they were both settled, Jon nodded to Dany, and at her command, the two dragons took to the air, heading south.

* * *

It was just after nightfall when they returned.

The first thing Jon did when he was back within Winterfell's walls was to send a runner to locate his siblings and Sam and summon them to his chambers. He sat on his bed next to Dany, her head on his shoulder and their hands intertwined, and waited for them to arrive.

Within a few minutes, there was a sharp rap on the door. "Come in."

The wood creaked open. Arya and Sansa stepped in first, followed by Sam, who was pushing Bran's wheeled chair.

Dany removed her head from his shoulder and Jon stood as they entered. Without any hesitation, Arya walked straight forward and hugged him. He rested his chin on the crown of her head and wrapped his arms around her.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"I am now," he replied, reassuring her with a half-smile.

She pulled away from him, and Jon cast his eyes between the four of them. He took a deep breath.

"Thank you for telling me the truth, Sam, Bran," he said. "It was something I needed to know. It was difficult to come to grips with at first, it's true, but Daenerys has helped me to do that."

"As you would have done for me," Dany put in. "We helped each other."

Jon inclined his head, and continued. "I know that by blood, the three of you are my cousins. But to me, nothing has changed between us. No matter what, you will always be my siblings. For now, however, I must ask that this knowledge remain secret to everyone but those of us in this room. We're already asking much by forcing the lords to swallow their pride and their grievances in order to fight beside two Lannisters and a Targaryen; I don't want to risk anything by revealing that the man they named King is not the son of Ned Stark."

"You are still a Stark," Sansa told him. "Just as much as you are a Targaryen. They chose you, Jon, and they will accept that."

"They might," Jon agreed. "But then, they might not. At the moment, it isn't worth the risk. I will tell them when we defeat the Night King."

"What will happen when they see you riding a dragon into battle against the dead?" Arya asked. "Since I assume that's something you intend to do. What will they think then?"

Jon hesitated, then shook his head. "Let them wonder. In the heat of battle, they won't have time for much more than a cursory thought. It can be explained away if it needs to be."

Arya nodded in agreement.

"Now then… is there anything else that we should discuss?" When no one added anything, he nodded. "Good. I need to go to the forge and see how the dragonglass weapons are coming."

"I'll come with you," Arya offered quickly, a strange glint in her eye.

"Alright."

The two of them headed for the door. He expected Dany to accompany them as well, but instead, as they were about to walk out, he heard her say, "Samwell, isn't it? Do you have a moment?"

Sam glanced at Bran uncertainly, looking confused. "Lady Sansa, would you mind taking Bran to the godswood?"

"Of course not," she assured him, and wheeled Bran out of the room.

Jon wondered what the Queen had to discuss with his friend in private, but he figured that if he needed to know, she would tell him later. He shrugged to himself, then together, he and Arya exited his chambers and began making their way to the forge.

* * *

 **Next up: Daenerys**


	13. Daenerys IV

**I'm so sorry for the long delay on this one, guys. I had a lot to do this past weekend and this chapter was a particularly tricky one to get right. But I'm satisfied with how it turned out, so here it is.**

 **Also, this is something I've been meaning to put in a note for a few chapters now but keep forgetting: you may or may not have noticed that I decided to omit the whole "Jon's name is Aegon" thing from this story. That wasn't an oversight, I did that on purpose. I'm not a big fan of that, and besides, we all know Jon isn't going to go by that name when he learns it :p**

 **Thanks again to my beta KT Armstrong for catching all my careless typos and spelling mistakes, of which this chapter was chock-full :)**

* * *

 **DAENERYS IV**

As the wooden door shut behind the Starks, leaving her alone in her and Jon's chambers with Samwell Tarly, Daenerys experienced something she had not felt in a very long time: genuine nervousness.

Her stomach was roiling uncomfortably, and the guilt she had prevented herself from feeling over burning Lord Randyll and his son was once again threatening to rise to the surface, and it was only increasing as Sam stared at her with uncertain curiosity.

"What is it you wished to speak to me about, Your Grace?" he asked her.

Dany summoned her inner steel, as she so often had to do, and drove her feelings away. "I understand you were a brother of Jon's in the Night's Watch," she said. "May I ask how you came to be on the Wall?"

The question seemed to take him by surprise. "Well…" he said. "I grew up at Horn Hill in the Reach. As the eldest son of my father, Lord Randyll Tarly" – Dany's breath hitched at the confirmation of her fear, but she covered it well – "I was expected to be his heir. But, well, I'm not too good at fighting, as I'm sure you can guess, Your Grace. And, I… I was a craven. I didn't want to fight or learn how to use a sword. So on my eighteenth nameday, my father gave me an ultimatum: take the Black and give up my claim to Horn Hill to my brother Dickon, or he would arrange a 'hunting accident' for me."

Dany stared, and despite who was standing in front of her, she felt her guilt for Lord Tarly's fate receding. How could a father threaten to do something like that to his own child? "You… you were in conflict with your father, then?" she ventured hesitantly.

Sam nodded, and she could say the pain and sadness in his eyes. She expected anger or resentment, but there was little trace of either.

"And… and your brother?" she added. "Were you close with him?"

Sam sighed. "Not very," he admitted. "Father tried to keep us apart; I think he was afraid I would 'corrupt' Dickon in some way. But he was polite enough to me when we did interact."

Dany breathed a slight sigh of relief. Perhaps this would not be quite as devastating a blow as she had feared.

"Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but what interest do you have in my family?"

She decided to simply launch into the truth before her courage failed her. "When I led my Dothraki to attack the Lannister loot train on their way back to King's Landing, your father and brother were among those fighting against me. After the battle, I offered a choice to all those who had survived: bend the knee or die." She took a shaky breath and met his eyes miserably. "Lord Tarly and your brother would not kneel."

Sam blinked.

Dany pressed on, desiring to explain herself. "I am sorry, truly I am. I took no pleasure in doing it, but neither do I regret it. I did only what the situation required of me." When he didn't respond, she repeated, "I am sorry."

Finally, Sam closed his eyes and sighed. "I am sad to hear of it," he said. "My family were never particularly kind to me, but I would never have wished them death because of it. Still… this is war, I understand that, and they decided to fight on the wrong side. I'm not naïve enough to believe there are not casualties in war, nor that what you did was unjustified." He sighed again. "I'm not sure what exactly it is you expect from me, but if it's my forgiveness you want, then you have it… my Queen."

Truth be told, even _she_ hadn't known what it was she expected from him. She just had an inexplicable compulsion to tell him, an inner surety that he deserved to know what had happened to his family, and that she was the one who had done it.

But when he gave her his forgiveness, she realized that was what she'd been after the entire time. It was true, what she told him – she didn't regret it. But some part of her needed assurance that Sam, as one of Jon's closest friends, wouldn't hate her for what she had done. She wanted to know that he respected his family's decision and her response to it, even if it upset him.

"Truly?" she asked. "You don't resent me for what I did?"

He was silent for a moment before he replied. "I… I'm not happy about it, it's true. But Jon trusts you, even loves you, and I trust him more than anyone else. I know he would not have given his heart to someone who did not deserve it."

Dany felt her heart swell; for Sam, who was so accepting of her when he had every right not to be; and for Jon, who was so remarkable a man that he commanded such unwavering devotion, love, and respect from everyone who knew him.

"Thank you, Samwell," she said sincerely, pouring every ounce of her heartfelt gratitude for his forgiveness into her voice.

He bowed. "Of course, Your Grace. Will that be all?"

"It will. Although, know that if there is anything you ever need, Samwell Tarly, do not hesitate to ask it of me."

Sam smiled. "Thank you, Your Grace." He inclined his head again, then turned and left the chamber, leaving the door slightly ajar.

When he had gone, Dany leaned her head back against the pillow and closed her eyes. She felt suddenly drained in the wake of the completion of her strenuous task, but it was a relaxing sense of fatigue. It was as if a burden she hadn't been aware she was carrying had been lifted off her chest, leaving her at once both utterly relieved and unusually tired.

The door creaked open. Ghost slipped into the room, alone, and padded silently to the bed. Dany observed him curiously as he hopped up onto the furs, curling himself against her side. The bed groaned under his added weight.

"You and your master have very similar preferences, I see," she murmured as she stroked his head.

He responded only with a low rumbling in his throat.

Truth be told, she found it remarkable how much the direwolf had in common with Jon. Both were quiet and reserved; Ghost rarely ever made a sound louder than a growl, and Jon was what many would describe as a brooding type. But despite their somewhat introverted natures, both were incredibly defensive of people and things they cared about, and concealed an inner flame of passion.

That was one of the many qualities she loved about her White Wolf. To everyone else, he was sullen but honorable, a strong and just leader. But to Daenerys, he was so much more. She got to see a side of that no one else did. Until today, she had thought it strange that a man of winter's blood could have such fire in his veins.

Now she knew the truth: he was a Targaryen, a son of the brother she never knew. The blood of Valyria flowed through him, just the same as it did her. When he was with her, she brought out the dragon in him, and it thrilled her that she was the only one who ever saw him such.

Words could not describe her relief that he had seen reason in regards to their relationship. When he fled on Rhaegal and she took Drogon to go after him, she was terrified that the new knowledge of his heritage would drive him away from her. It almost had, but she had persuaded him to realize that it didn't matter nearly as much as he thought it did.

Even now, the memory of their reconciliation brought a smile to her face. They truly were perfect for each other.

As she lay there on the bed with the large, warm body of Ghost nestled into her side, she wondered if there was something she should be doing rather than uselessly lounging about in her chambers. She knew Jon had gone with Arya to the castle forge, to check on the progress of the dragonglass weapons. She could join them, but she wouldn't be much use there. She wouldn't delude herself; if she went to the forge, it would only be to spend more time with Jon.

A sudden thought struck her. Jon had reaffirmed their intention to marry when she had gone to him. Traditionally, weddings were conducted in the style dictated by the religious faith of the man. Despite not caring much for tradition, Dany had never placed her belief in any gods. Jon, though, she knew still kept the Old Gods. It made sense, then – especially since they would likely have the ceremony in Winterfell, once the Night King was defeated – to have the wedding in the Northern style.

Since that was to be the case, she felt an inexplicable urge to pay a visit to the godswood.

She gently nudged Ghost toward the edge of the bed. He tilted his head up and stared at her with his unnervingly intelligent red eyes. "I need to get up, Ghost," she told him.

He whined softly and pushed his snout into her hand one more time, then leapt from the bed and strode over to the door. He sat himself down on his haunches and continued to stare at her. It seemed like he was waiting for her.

She climbed out of the bed and picked up a black fur cloak of Jon's that was draped over the back of a wooden chair. She wrapped the cloak around her shoulders, making sure her three-headed dragon brooch was still as visible as the direwolves emblazoned on the leather of the cloak. She thought it was a fitting touch of symbolism, one that would not likely be lost on the Northerners.

She hoped not, at least. They were all in this together now, and she wanted to remind the Northerners of that fact at every opportunity.

That, and she enjoyed carrying around something of Jon's everywhere she went.

Ghost stood aside to allow her to open the door, and they both exited out into the hallway. The direwolf trailed quietly alongside her as they walked through the castle. The unusual pair drew the eyes of most Northmen they passed, but Dany was pleased to see only a small amount of suspicion in their glances.

It seemed that Ghost's acceptance of her and presence at her side offered her a high level of credibility among the Northerners. After all, many of them had likely still suspected that she had in some way seduced Jon into submission. A direwolf, on the other hand, was a creature that would never be able to be fooled in such a way.

Ghost had apparently seen something in her, just as Drogon had sensed Jon's Targaryen blood on Dragonstone. Whatever quality convinced the direwolf she was trustworthy was working wonders on the attitudes of the Northerners. Some of them even respectfully dipped their heads to her as she passed.

Before long, the two of them arrived at the gate that marked the entrance to the godswood. Dany pushed it open and walked through. Ghost followed behind.

Dany's breath caught as she entered the wood. It was fascinating to her that an entire small forest was enclosed within the walls of the castle, and it was beautiful. Towering trunks of ash, chestnut, ironwood, oak, and innumerable others decorated the area, whitewashed in a layer of glittering snow. It caught the light of the torches from the walls and reflected it back in brilliant sparkles, illuminating the leaves and branches in the dark winter evening. At the very center of the wood stood the hulking white weirwood heart tree.

With Ghost still at her side, Dany trod wordlessly toward the weirwood. A large stone sat on the ground in front of it, next to a shallow pool of dark water, and she seated herself upon it. Ghost settled onto the ground beside her. He was so tall, even when he was laying down, he was able to rest his head in her lap.

As she passed her hand smoothly down the top of his head, she stared silently up at the weirwood. Like many things in the North, the heart tree and the godswood possessed the same rugged, harsh beauty that she had remarked about to Jon. The entire wood carried an atmosphere of serene isolation.

Dany had never put much stock in the existence of gods. Ser Jorah had once told her he believed what his eyes and ears report, and she was much the same way. What was a god if not a supremely powerful being, to be adored and respected by all? Her dragons were her gods; for what could anything or anyone possibly do to them?

But with the death of Viserion, she was forced to swallow proof that her children weren't invincible. And as she had said to Jon Snow during one of their first conversations on Dragonstone, these days they should all be re-examining what they thought they knew.

Sitting there in front of the weirwood tree, she couldn't deny that she felt something… more. She couldn't quite place her finger on what it was, but if dragons and White Walkers and Night Kings could exist, perhaps the Olds Gods really did exist in some form after all.

"Queen Daenerys." The quiet voice from the entrance to the godswood interrupted her introspective reverie.

She twisted her body around on the rock.

Bran Stark approached her, wheeled forward by a guard in traditional Northern armor. A brown fur cloak, similar to the one of Jon's she currently wore, was draped over his body like a quilt, the silver sewn direwolves in stark contrast to the dark material.

When he reached her beside the weirwood and the pool, he nodded to the guard at his side. The man glanced at her once, then turned and departed at Bran's order.

"Lord Stark," Dany greeted respectfully.

He tilted his head. "I'm not Lord Stark," he said. "I'm only Bran. I'm the three-eyed raven."

Dany offered him a wry half-smile. "Your family seems to have little concern for titles and formality," she noted.

"None of us are what we once were," he agreed.

She couldn't argue with that.

Ghost lifted his head up at Bran's voice. He hummed, and nuzzled Bran's knee with his snout once. Then he settled his muzzle back in Dany's lap.

"He has become very protective of you," said Bran.

"Indeed. And I must admit I rather enjoy his company, though I can't say I understand what has drawn him to be so affectionate with me."

"Direwolves have very perceptive senses; I believe he has sensed the truth," Bran replied cryptically.

"'Sensed the truth'?"

He looked at her, and his eyes were scarily devoid of emotion – but not intelligence. They were the eyes of a man who had seen many things, things no one should have to see, yet somehow retained his sanity by shutting out his feelings. The thought made her shiver. But the sentence he spoke next was a hammer blow that abruptly drove those musings from her head.

"Your curse is broken."

It took her a moment to comprehend his meaning. When she did, all her breath left her. A rush of emotions flooded through her: shock, disbelief, confusion… and relief, joy. Bran's single statement, delivered with all the detached precision of a surgeon, inspired in her a reaction similar to when she'd learned of Viserion's resurrection.

For all of a few seconds, her mind refused to believe what he had said. He was wrong, he had to be. She knew she was barren; she had lain with Daario for months in Meereen and her womb had never quickened.

But then she allowed herself to think, _What if?_ Bran had not been wrong about anything thus far. And, come to think of it, when she had first arrived at Winterfell, Ghost had spent several seconds sniffing at her stomach. That would certainly explain why he had taken to traveling at her side.

She tried to remember how long it had been since she had first started coupling with Jon. She thought it had been slightly longer than a moon's turn, and it was true that she couldn't recall having bled since before their relationship had begun.

Yet for all the signs, she still had difficulty believing it was true. The witch who cursed her had said that she would never bear a child again until the sun rose in the west and set in the east, until the seas ran dry and mountains blew in the wind like leaves.

"How?" she whispered hoarsely, unable to speak more than the one word that summed up all of her questions.

"'Only death can pay for life,'" Bran quoted, and her eyes widened in surprise. "The death of one child has paid for the life of another."

She couldn't find the words to reply. There was only one thing going through her mind at that moment, only one thought she could focus on:

 _I'm pregnant… I'm pregnant with Jon's child_.

For years, so much of her worldview had been founded on the belief that she was barren. She thought that she would never know the joys of being a mother, that she would never be able to produce an heir. She thought she would never be able to continue the Targaryen name, that her family's legacy would end with her.

If that truly was incorrect… nothing could describe the joy and happiness she felt at that possibility. Somehow, someway, she had been given a second chance – a second chance to realize her dream.

 _Tyrion will be pleased_ , she thought wryly. _The succession that he seems so concerned about is no longer an issue._ The thought made her giddy.

Her hand – the one that wasn't stroking Ghost's fur – drifted unconsciously down to rest on her stomach. "Are… are you certain?" she asked breathlessly.

"As certain as I can be," Bran answered.

That was good enough for her.

* * *

Bran left her alone not long after their conversation. She remained in the godswood for another couple of hours, absentmindedly petting Ghost while contemplating the drastic significance of the knowledge Bran had just led her to discover.

But eventually, when she realized how late it had gotten, she decided she needed to return to the keep. She was tired, too, she found, and she hoped that was another sign of the truth of Bran's words.

Together, Dany and Ghost exited the godswood and made their way through the castle to the tower that housed the chambers she shared with Jon. She knocked once on the door. When no sound came from within, she turned the knob and pushed it open, finding the room empty.

Ghost plopped down at the foot of the foot of the bed, curling up and resting his head on his forepaws. Dany removed Jon's cloak from her shoulders and draped back over the chair where she found it, then stripped out of the rest of her clothes as well. She settled under the furs of the bed, naked, and waited for Jon to return. She had intended to stay awake to greet him, but she found herself dozing against her will.

She woke from her light slumber when the bed beside her suddenly dipped under new weight, and the comforting warmth of Jon's skin pressed against her back. He wrapped his arms around her as her eyes blinked open, and she turned her head to smile at him over her shoulder.

"My Queen," he murmured lovingly, pressing a kiss into her bare shoulder.

She shivered. "How are the forges handling the increased demand, my love?" she asked him, refusing to let him distract her.

He chuckled softly, realizing what she was doing. "Well enough," he said. "We stumbled across quite a breakthrough, in fact."

"Oh?"

"Mmm… we discovered how to forge Valyrian steel. Quite by accident, as it happens."

Dany blinked in surprise. "Oh," she repeated. "Well… that is wonderful news. I thought the secrets of Valyrian steel were lost to the ages."

"As did many."

"It appears, then, that today was simply a day for miraculous and extraordinary discoveries," she said quietly. She met his eyes and grabbed his arm, guiding his hand to her belly and covering it with her own.

It took several seconds before realization dawned on him. His eyes widened in shock, and his mouth stretched upward into a radiant smile, the fullest smile she had ever seen on his face. For a while, he just stared at her in wonder.

"Are you sure?" he said finally. "I thought you said –"

"Yes," she interrupted. "I am as sure as I can be. I don't know exactly how, but your brother Bran seems to believe that Viserion… that Viserion's death has broken my curse."

"Bran?"

"He saw it, somehow. He told me today. And while I cannot be completely certain he is correct, the signs are there… and I can feel it in my heart that it is true."

She meant what she said. She couldn't explain how she knew; she just did. It was just as she had known Rhaego, her previous child, was a boy, when he was still in the womb.

"I'm going to be a father," Jon mumbled dazedly.

Then his eyes darkened, and he spun Dany around so that she faced him completely, chest-to-chest. Her eyes asked him a silent question.

"Marry me," he said.

She raised an eyebrow at him and smiled. "I believe I have already agreed to do just that, my Lord."

"No… I mean now. As soon as we can prepare for it."

It was her turn to be surprised. "Jon… I want to, I do, but I don't think now is the best time. There is so much we must do, so little time to –"

"I know," he said, cutting her off. "Which is why it should be now; now may be the only time." His voice lowered, growing soft as silk. "I don't want my child to grow up a bastard. It's not a good life for a child, even a highborn bastard. Maybe it doesn't matter that much in the face of everything else at the moment, but it matters to me. Please, Dany. Let's have the ceremony as quickly as possible."

"Alright," she acquiesced. "I'll talk to Tyrion about preparations. He may not agree to having it so quickly, but I can be very persuasive."

"Mmm… that you can. I'll talk to Sansa, too." He smiled at her again, and bent his head to connect their lips. He bit at her lower lip, and she groaned into his mouth. When he pulled back, he stared at her with such love and adoration in his eyes, it left her no doubt as to the quality of father Jon Snow would be. "Gods, you're beautiful," he told her. "Sometimes I think I am the luckiest man alive to love you, and to have you love me."

She smiled, stroked his cheek with her palm. "I don't think luck has anything to do with it," she said, and kissed him again.

* * *

 **:O**

 **Next up: Theon**


	14. Jon IV

**Oooookay, so I'm reaaaally sorry about the huge delay for this chapter, but in return, I present the longest chapter of this fic (at the moment, anyway). I know I said Theon was going to be next, but the fact is, I just couldn't do it. Part of the reason this took so long to come out is that I wasted a week trying (and failing) to make the Theon chapter work. The simple fact is that I couldn't. I had the ideas and the plot planned out, I knew what I wanted to happen, I just couldn't get into Theon's head. I couldn't write from his POV, probably because I dislike him so much, especially compared to Jon and Dany and the others. Don't worry though, his story will be told eventually, just not in the way I originally intended. But anyway, after I decided Theon just wasn't going to work, it was midterm season and I got swamped with schoolwork. I finally got this cranked out, though, and hopefully it won't be as long before I get the next one done. Sorry again, and if you guys are sticking with this story than you're amazing.**

 **Also, if you understand the Ornn reference, then you're a nerd like me :p**

 **Credit once again goes to my beta, kuhtuh21, and her limitless patience with me this past month lol**

* * *

 **JON IV**

Leaving Daenerys to speak with Sam alone, Jon and Arya began the walk from his chambers out to the castle forge. As they went, Arya broached the companionable silence.

"I can see why you like her," she said casually, though Jon could tell it was feigned; there was much more meaning behind her attitude than she wanted to reveal. "Fierce, smart, beautiful… and, of course, completely stubborn and headstrong, just like yourself."

Without looking at her, he cocked an eyebrow in mild amusement and didn't answer.

"She asked me to show her how to use a sword, you know."

Jon turned his head sharply. "I did not know."

She eyed him curiously. "You sound upset," she noted.

"Should I not be? She has her dragons; I would rather she not involve herself so closely in the battle that she would need to use a sword."

"I'm sure she would rather that happen as well. But the dragons aren't invincible, Jon. You know that as well as anyone. What happens if, gods forbid, they're taken down? What if she finds herself on the ground, surrounded by enemies? Would you rather she be unarmed and helpless, or armed with a sword and the skill to use it?"

Jon's heart climbed into his throat. Arya spoke truly; he didn't want to see Daenerys on land during the battle, but if the worst came to pass and she ended up there anyway, it would be prudent that she be capable of defending herself.

"Fine," he conceded, carefully stepping down a set of snow-slicked steps. He sighed. "It's not as if I'm foolish enough to believe I could stop her from learning, anyway."

Arya grinned wryly. "Stubborn and headstrong, remember?" Jon rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched as well. Arya's voice softened as she continued. "I understand your hesitancy; I know you just want to try to shield her, though from what I'm not exactly sure. But you can't protect everyone forever, Jon. And I may not know her very well, but I can tell already that she wouldn't want you to try to shelter her like that."

Once again, Jon had to admit that she was right. He had already had to accept the drastic change in the sister beside him, the sister who was rumored to be just as skilled with a blade as him. He was worried what kind of effect learning to fight might have on Daenerys, and he wanted to protect her from it.

The more he thought about it, the more foolish he realized it was. It wasn't as if she hadn't ever killed a man before.

 _Ordering a man's death or scouring him with dragonfire on the battlefield is not the same as wielding the blade with your own hand,_ a voice inside him whispered. He pointedly ignored it.

He sighed again. "I know," he admitted. "That doesn't make it any easier."

Arya's face softened, and she bumped his shoulder affectionately. "It's not as if I'm going to hurt her. I'll be the best instructor you've ever seen."

He smiled at her. "I'm sure you will. But gods help you if she suspects you're going easy on her. I doubt even I'd be able to save you from her wrath."

Arya laughed in response.

After a few more minutes traversed in silence, the two of them finally reached the castle's forge. However, when they arrived, they found but one lone smith with a small fire burning, hammering on a bent strip of metal.

The man looked up as they approached, his eyes widening comically when he realized their identities. He bowed respectfully. "Your Grace, my Lady," he said, voice carrying a hint of awe.

Jon frowned. "Good man, where are the rest of the smiths? I was made to understand that a large force of metalworkers had been assembled to meet the demand of the dragonglass weapons we have commissioned."

"They have, Your Grace," the man confirmed. "And due to the space constraints of this forge, the stocky man with blue eyes and black hair – Gendry, I think he said his name was – set up a large pavilion outside the castle walls to house a larger forge."

Jon nodded in understanding. "I see. Thank you for your assistance…?" He trailed off, prompting the man for his name.

The man bowed again. "Ornn, if it please Your Grace."

"Thank you, Ornn. I am grateful for your information. If you should require any more materials for your work, you need only ask."

He and Arya departed the nearly empty forge and made their way across the courtyard to the front gate. The snow came halfway up their shins, slowing their steps and permeating a chill through their leathers.

Miraculously, it hadn't snowed in several days, but winter was heavy in the air around them. Jon knew it would only be a matter of time before the snows came again. He worried that when the next storm came, it would last long enough to consume the North.

It didn't take them long to locate the forge pavilion Gendry had apparently set up: the thick column of smoke rising into the air was a telltale giveaway.

As they got closer, Jon realized that the hastily-constructed stone building was much larger than it had originally appeared. It was a square several dozen yards in length, the walls only a foot taller than the height of a man. Chimneys to funnel the smoke rose from the walls every few feet, extending above the level of the ceiling. There was no door; instead, one side of the forge was entirely open to the elements.

Considering the amount of time they'd had to build it, Jon thought it was a rather impressive structure.

Men swarmed around the forge like insects. There were dozens of them, mostly Northmen, lugging around huge armfuls of dragonglass or helping with the actual forging of the weapons. Jon cast his eyes around the chaos, searching for Gendry.

Arya tapped him on the shoulder and directed his gaze towards the back of the forge. Gendry was bent over an anvil, hammer in hand, carefully striking a piece of dragonglass with the kind of care born from countless hours of experience.

"Gendry," Arya tried to call above the myriad of voices, but the black-haired man didn't seem to hear them. She rolled her eyes and stalked forward, Jon following behind, his eyebrows raised in slight amusement at his sister's frustration.

Gendry didn't even raise his eyes from his work until Arya punched him lightly on the shoulder. He jumped, more startled than hurt, and then realized who had come to see him.

"Your Grace," he acknowledged, surprised. "Arya."

"Hello, Gendry," she said.

"Jon, please, Gendry," said Jon. "I know you have some kind of… shared history with my sister, and although I admit I don't know much of the exact nature of your relationship, I can see that you care for each other on some level. You don't need to call me 'Your Grace.'"

Gendry blinked, then nodded hesitatingly. "Very well… Jon."

Arya appeared uneasy after Jon's words, as if she didn't know the "exact nature" of their relationship either. Jon could seem some kind affection between them, but it was certainly muddled. He thought it would probably be best to let them work that out on their own.

Deciding not to waste any more time, he asked Gendry, "What progress have you been able to make concerning the dragonglass weapons?"

The young smith scratched his scruffy beard. "Well, it's a strange material, not like anything I've ever worked with. But we've come up with a process that seems to be doing well so far. We've already made a few thousand assorted swords or daggers and such."

Jon considered for a moment. "We're going to need spears and short swords as well, for the Unsullied. And Dothraki… _arakhs_ , I think they're called."

Gendry frowned. "What's an _arakh_?"

"It's a sort of curved sword or scimitar; the Dothraki prefer them because they're very effective on horseback. I can have Ser Jorah find one that you can use as a model to craft more."

"Aye, alright. Is there anything else?"

Arya, who had been silent up to now, spoke up at that moment. "That's perfectly fine for most of the soldiers, but what about those of us with weapons that we've grown… ahh, attached to?" As she finished, she tapped Needle's hilt affectionately, and Jon couldn't keep the small smile from his face at the memory of the day he'd given her the blade. "From what I understand, regular steel can't harm the dead."

Gendry frowned again. He couldn't seem to come up with any ideas.

"Would it be possible to melt down the dragonglass to a level that would allow it to be mixed with regular steel?" Jon suggested.

"Hmm…" Gendry mused. "Possibly. But there's a big difference between heating the dragonglass to make it malleable enough to form into weapons and melting it down entirely. I'm not sure any of our forges can produce that kind of heat."

A sudden thought occurred to Jon, and he smiled slowly. "I might be able to help with that. I'll be back shortly; in the meantime, find a steel sword and melt it down in preparation."

Gendry nodded, and Arya asked, "Where are you going?"

"You'll see." As Jon walked out of the forge, he muttered to himself, "I suppose it's a good thing the forge was moved outside."

It was indeed fortunate, especially given the makeshift forge's location on the edge of the camp rather than the center. It would make things far easier, given what he had in mind.

Still extremely new to the idea of a bond with a dragon, Jon tried to focus on… whatever it was he'd felt when he first rode Rhaegal. He tentatively reached out to the dragon, trying to give him the impression that Jon needed his help.

Within a few minutes, he heard the beat of giant wings reverberate through the air. The dark shape of Rhaegal materialized in the center of the thick grey clouds, before he dove down towards the camp. His green-and-bronze scales were coated in a thin layer of moisture, and as he flew, the rush of air dislodged the water from his body, showering the ground below him. The falling particles of liquid shimmered in the fading evening light reflected in his scales.

The sight took Jon's breath away.

Rhaegal landed a few yards away from him. Jon approached him, and the dragon lowered his head level with Jon's. "Hello, my friend," he said softly, laying a hand on his snout. Rhaegal hummed. "I need your help with something."

With the dragon now at his side, Jon returned to the forge. Gendry and Arya, who were engaged in heated conversation, broke off and looked at him in astonishment. "You said you didn't think any forge could produce the heat you need to fully melt down the dragonglass," Jon explained, a bit of a self-satisfied half-smile inching his lips upward. "I think a dragon should be suitable."

Gendry swallowed. "I… I would imagine so, Your Grace," he said, his nervousness making him revert to the use of Jon's title.

Once Jon was able to allay the man's trepidation, Gendry carefully balanced a plate of dragonglass on top of a stone container. He set it down in front of Rhaegal, then hurriedly skirted away from the menacing dragon.

At Jon's calm, soothing entreaty, Rhaegal opened his maw and breathed a controlled jet of fire steadily onto the obsidian. They watched as it slowly began to turn into a liquid form, slopping down into the stone basin. When it was done, Rhaegal closed his mouth and snorted in satisfaction.

Jon and Arya quickly moved forward with Gendry and helped him lift the stone container, carrying it back into the center of the forge. As Jon had instructed, Gendry had already prepared a vat of molten steel for them to mix with the newly-melted dragonglass.

They set the basin down on the ground and strode over to the stone table in which Gendry had carved a mold in the shape of a long, straight bar. He poured a small amount of liquid steel into the mold, then added some of the molten dragonglass.

As he worked, Gendry explained the process he was going to use to craft the first test sword. "Most swords are only forged from one material," he told them. "All you have to do is essentially just reshape a pre-crafted bar of the desired metal… and after, it must be hardened and tempered, of course. A sword made from two separate metals is more rare, and more difficult. It adds another step."

Finished pouring the two liquids into the mold, he grabbed a stone rod and began to slowly stir the mixture, careful to keep it from overflowing the long, skinny groove. "Before you can shape the blade, you need it to be in the standard bar shape. You have to fully melt down both metals, blend them together as well as you can, then allow the mixture to cool slowly, so it will be soft. Once that's done, you can start the process where you would with any normal steel sword."

Jon watched the smith's eyes light up as he talked about his craft, and he could tell that Gendry knew what he was doing. He was extremely grateful to Davos that he had found the man and recruited him.

After Gendry had slowly mixed the molten metals for several minutes, he frowned. "That's odd…" he said.

"What?" asked Arya. "What is it?"

"Well, back in King's Landing, I used to be apprenticed to a smith named Tobho Mott. He was one of the only people left in the world who knew how to rework Valyrian steel. We didn't get many customers who had any for him to work with, but there were a few times when some rich folks came in and I helped him reforge trinkets of Valyrian steel into small knives or even pieces of cutlery." He gestured towards the stone mold in front of him. "When we'd melt down the Valyrian steel, this is almost exactly what it would look like."

Jon froze. The implications of those words... was it possible? Surely they couldn't have stumbled upon one of the greatest lost secrets of their millennium… by accident?

The significance of Gendry's statement wasn't lost on Arya either. "Are you telling me…" She swallowed. "Do you mean to say that we've just discovered the formula for Valyrian steel?"

"I can't say for certain until I start actually working on the blade, shaping and tempering and the like. But that could very well be the case."

Jon sucked in a breath. The ability to manufacture Valyrian steel… that could truthfully be the most important discovery of their generation.

"If it's just a combination of dragonglass and regular steel, how has no one else discovered this before?" Arya wondered.

"Dragonglass is rare," Jon said. "And it was only ever thought to be decorative. No one had any reason to need it for a weapon; it was simply used for jewelry and such. Besides, if the only thing hot enough to melt it down is dragonfire… then even if someone knew the required combination, it wouldn't have been possible to craft it once the dragons had died out. Or, of course, it could be that what we have here isn't even Valyrian steel, that it's missing some vital component."

"I'll keep experimenting with it," Gendry promised.

"Do that, and keep me updated," Jon ordered Gendry. "If that truly is Valyrian steel, I need to know, so we can start making as much of it as is humanly possible."

Gendry nodded. "I will. Do you still want us to work on dragonglass weapons?"

Jon hesitated. "For now, yes. But as soon as you figure out about the Valyrian steel, focus all of your efforts into creating more of that." With that, he turned and exited the forge.

Briefly, he noticed Arya wasn't following. He looked back, and she was standing in the same spot as she'd been. He raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

She shrugged. "It's been years since I've seen Gendry," she said. "I'm going to stay for a bit and catch up with him while he works."

Jon looked at her carefully, knowing there was something more than what she wanted to tell him. But he let it go, nodding and departing the forge.

* * *

When he was back within the walls of Winterfell, Jon was struck with a bout of weariness. All of the revelations and stresses of the recent days came crashing back down onto his shoulders, and he nearly staggered under the weight of it all.

Suddenly desperate for some peace, he allowed his legs to lead him in a familiar direction. He grabbed a torch from the wall and descended the stone steps. The frigid darkness of the crypts washed over him, held slightly at bay by the small flame he carried.

When Jon was young, he would find unusual comfort in journeying down to the crypts, especially when he was feeling particularly alienated by Lady Catelyn or others due to his (presumed) bastard status. Down in the bowels of the castle, the presence of Starks long dead would reassure him.

 _You are one of us_ , they seemed to whisper. _You are truly a Stark by blood._

Yet he now knew the truth: it was not his father that his Stark blood came from, as he had believed for so much of his life. Still, there were some things even blood could not change. Jon may not have been of Ned's seed, but he was the only father Jon had ever known, and would ever know.

He thought it was rather fitting, as he stopped in front of the most recent carving, standing in the very spot he'd stood before he'd left for Dragonstone. Silently, he observed the statue that was supposed to resemble Ned Stark's countenance.

In truth, it looked nothing like him. Jon traced the line of his jaw and the heavy set of his brow, trying to overlay his own mental image of the man onto the lifeless stone. It pained and saddened him to realize that even his own memory of Lord Stark's appearance was not as clear as it once was.

 _Why didn't you tell me, Father?_ he implored the statue in his mind. _I know you wanted to protect me, but didn't I deserve to know before we parted? Were you afraid of how I would react? Were you still afraid King Robert would find out?_

He placed his head in his hands and groaned. He had so many questions for the man who had raised him as his own son, and none of them would ever be answered.

Sighing, he stood once more, walking slowly to the next statue he needed to see. It was a bitter sort of irony, he thought, that all these years, the truth had been right in front of him, hiding in plain sight.

As he stood in front of the statue of his mother, Lyanna Stark, a deep, soul-wrenching melancholy threatened to overtake him. She was nothing more than a girl who wanted to be free to make her own future, who had become smitten with the Dragon Prince, and he with her. If Bran was right, then their love was pure, but how many hundreds of thousands had died for it?

It was a grim tale, and Jon was reluctant to delve too deep into it. He was afraid if he did, he would find parallels to his own life, something that would reignite guilt over his relationship with Daenerys.

 _I will not let history repeat itself_ , he vowed. _What good is the past if we don't learn from it? Rhaegar and Lyanna allowed their love to blind them, and it tore the country apart. But Daenerys and I… our love will strengthen us, and reunify the country behind us._

It sounded much like wishful thinking, but he was determined to see it become truth.

He studied Lyanna's face, trying to sort out the roiling emotions within him. He could hardly blame her for her actions, especially considering the situation he himself was in. It took him a moment to realize the majority of what he felt towards her was longing.

He longed to know the woman he'd heard tales of since he was a child. He longed to know the warmth of a loving mother's embrace. He wished that everything was different, and that they could have been together as a mother and son should be.

But even as that thought flitted through him, he dismissed it. If things had happened differently, he may never have met Daenerys. He may never have seen the threat beyond the Wall, and the White Walkers could have been assaulting a country that was entirely unaware of the danger.

He recalled a snippet of a conversation he had once overheard between Varys and Lord Tyrion in which Tyrion referenced a quote from someone known as Kinvara. He'd said, "We can't forget the words of the wonderfully cryptic Kinvara: 'Everyone is what they are and where they are for a reason,' after all."

He considered that statement. It was a freeing philosophy, to be sure, if he allowed himself to believe it. But did it apply to the dead as well? Could so many deaths, especially in his family, have simply been _fated_ or _destined_ to happen?

Jon sighed. He didn't have time to become wrapped up with internal debates such as these. Not with the threat of the Night King looming so real and close above them.

For the first time, he noticed that there was something on the ground in front of his mother's statue that he'd failed to see in the dark. He frowned and lowered his torch to illuminate the object.

It was a bouquet of flowers, five blue winter roses tied neatly together.

He bent down and gently picked them up, cradling them in his hand. A lone tear slowly rolled its way down his cheek.

"I thought I might find you down here." A soft voice echoed through the crypts, one that Jon recognized but would never have expected to hear down in the crypts.

Howland Reed stepped out of the gloom to stand beside him. The man was small, shorter even than Jon, but well-built and strong. His hair had greyed with age, with only a few small flecks of tan remaining to show its original color. His brown eyes were warm and soft, the eyes of a kind, but brave and confident man.

"Lord Reed," Jon greeted. He tried to keep his voice from sounding terse, but he was in even less of a mood for conversation than usual.

"Howland, please," the crannogman replied. His eyes drifted down to the roses still clutched in Jon's hands. "You found my gift for your mother, I see."

"You left these? For my…" His voice hardened slightly. "My aunt, you mean." He still wanted to keep his identity a secret, even from a man who had been one of Ned Stark's closest and most loyal friends.

Howland smiled sadly. "I do not," he said. "Bran told me you had learned the truth, have you not?"

Jon stared at him. "I have. But how do you…?" He trailed off as he recalled the last time he'd heard the story of his father's journey to Dorne. "You were there," he realized. "You were with my father at the Tower of Joy."

Howland nodded. "I was. We found Lyanna there, lying on a bed in a pool of her own blood, a tiny infant bundled in her arms. She told us the truth; that she loved Rhaegar – he hadn't raped her – and the child was his son, you. She made Ned promise to watch over you. We had heard what happened to Rhaegar's other children, and we suspected the same fate awaited you if Robert were to ever learn of your existence. I don't think I need to tell you the solution he devised to avoid that outcome."

"No, you don't." Jon sighed. "I wish he had told me."

"The truth, now: would it have made a difference? Do you think you would have been able to understand your father's actions as clearly then as you do now? Or do you think, as young and ignorant of the world as you were, the knowledge would have destroyed you?"

It was difficult to accept Howland's words, but Jon knew he was right. As badly as he wanted to know the truth all those years ago, he hadn't been ready to face it. Ned had recognized that, and chosen not to tell him yet, not knowing it would be his last opportunity to do so.

"It doesn't matter now," said Jon. "If there's one thing I've learned in the past two days, it's that there's no point in dwelling on the what-ifs and could-have-beens of the past."

Howland nodded in agreement, and for a few minutes, the two men simply stood in solemn silence. Then Jon asked suddenly, "You knew her, did you not? Could you… could you tell me about her?"

Looking up at Lyanna's blank stone face, Howland smiled wistfully. "She was lovely," he said. His voice was far away, engrossed in his memories. "In a true Northern way. She was beautiful but fierce, wild and untamed, the most free spirit I ever knew. People say that your sister Arya has Lyanna's looks; in truth, she is so like your mother I almost thought her Lyanna born again." He tore his eyes from the statue and looked at Jon. "Tell me, Jon, do you know the story of the Tourney at Harrenhal?"

"I know what everyone knows: that Rhaegar won the joust, and crowned Lyanna the Queen of Love and Beauty instead of his wife, Elia Martell."

Howland nodded. "And so began the events that led to Robert's Rebellion. But do you know _why_ Rhaegar did such a drastic thing?"

Jon shook his head. "He thought her more beautiful than his wife?"

"I'm afraid it was far more complicated than that. In essence, I suppose it all really started with me."

"With you?" Jon questioned in surprise.

"Oh yes. You see, I had just reached manhood, and was attending the Tourney as the future Lord of Greywater Watch. Even back then, I was small for my age, and three squires thought it amusing to set themselves upon me, beating me with their fists and kicking me. Your mother heard the commotion and came to investigate. When she saw what was going on, she picked up a blunted tourney sword and fought off my attackers."

"She knew how to use a sword?"

"And more besides. Did you think I was exaggerating about her similarities with your sister? That included her disdain for typical 'ladylike' pursuits and her interest in fighting instead." He chuckled softly. "After Lyanna defended me, she took me to the Stark tent and introduced me to your uncles, Brandon, Ned, and Benjen. She treated my wounds and encouraged me to enter the tourney joust to defend my honor and exact vengeance on the squires who had assaulted me." He shook his head ruefully. "I wanted to, of course, but I was afraid that I would fail and bring shame unto myself and my house."

"The next day, we learned the knights whose squires had attacked me had all qualified for the joust – a knight of House Blount, one of House Frey, and one of House Haigh. The day after that, we heard of the appearance of a new knight, with mismatched pieces of armor and the design of a laughing weirwood tree painted on his shield. No one knew who he was or where he'd come from, but he quickly became known as the Knight of the Laughing Tree. When the tourney started, he bested each of the offending knights, unseating them with surprising ease, and won their horses and their armor. When the knights petitioned to barter them back, the Knight of the Laughing Tree declared that he would return their possessions if they disciplined their squires and taught them honor. The knights weren't popular, and the crowd cheered at their humiliation."

"But, of course, not everyone was happy about it. As I'm sure you've heard, King Aerys was present at the tourney, and he became convinced that this new knight was a threat to his reign. It was preposterous, of course, but even then – before he'd begun burning people alive – the madness was beginning to show itself. He planned to have the knight unmasked on the next day of the tourney. Only, when morn came and the tourney recommenced, the Knight of the Laughing Tree was nowhere to be found. In Aerys' mind, this was proof that the knight was conspiring against him, so he sent out men to search for the knight and imprison him. Among the men he sent was his eldest son, Prince Rhaegar."

"This is where the tale ends for most people. Aerys' men were unsuccessful in locating the knight, and the tourney resumed, with Rhaegar declared the victor and shocking the crowd by crowning Lyanna as the Queen of Love and Beauty."

"You said, 'for most people,'" Jon remarked. "Which means, I presume, that you have more to tell."

Howland inclined his head. "Indeed. On her deathbed, Lyanna told Ned and I the truth of what had happened; for it was she, of course, who had taken the guise of the Knight of the Laughing Tree to punish those knights and their squires on my behalf. She said that Rhaegar had found her as she was discarding her armor, and that the Prince had not condemned her for her actions – as many would have – but had instead been curious as to why a highborn lady would enter a jousting tourney in disguise."

"She told him the reason why she'd done it, to defend the honor of someone who couldn't do it himself. They struck up a conversation, and apparently became enamored with each other. So Rhaegar lied to his father, and pretended that he had been unable to apprehend the knight. And when he won the tourney, he placed the crown of winter roses in Lyanna's lap."

Howland sighed. "Of course, everyone knows what happened after. Rhaegar's actions, though he meant well, were rash and ill-considered, and it led to a bloody war that resulted in the death of his entire family, save his sister and the son he never met. It's hard to forgive him for that." The crannogman eyed Jon meaningfully. "Though perhaps someone in a similar situation might be more understanding, hmm?"

"Is that supposed to be a warning?" asked Jon. "Are you going to voice your displeasure about my choices like everyone else?"

He'd tried to contain the bitterness in his voice, but Howland must have perceived it anyway. He placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "I owe your mother a great debt, Jon, for what she did for me. I loved her like a sister, and I wish I could have saved her. I couldn't help her when she needed me most. But her son needs me now, and I _can_ help you." He gave Jon a sad but comforting smile, and for just a moment, he was reminded of the broody but warm seriousness of Ned Stark. "How could I ever fault you for finding love, especially in dire times such as these? I do not fault Lyanna nor Rhaegar for their love, only for the actions they chose to take because of it. So I will tell you this, Jon: always be mindful of the consequences of your choices. You are a King, now, like it or not, and the choices you make affect the lives of everyone under your rule. The Queen understands this too, I'm sure, and I think that together, the two of you will make excellent rulers. I only want you to be careful, and to avoid repeating the mistakes of the past."

Jon nodded. "I have pondered much the same thoughts recently," he admitted. "I worry that Daenerys is a distraction, something I can't afford right now. But then I remember the strength her presence grants me, the determination to return to her that might see me through a battle. And I ask myself, how can this love possibly be a bad thing? How it can be wrong when it makes me feel so right, so complete?"

Howland nodded. "That is something you must reconcile on your own. But I want you to know, Jon, that I am here if you require counsel, or anything else. Whatever it is you need, House Reed will provide. I know you still consider Ned Stark to be your real father. He was one of my closest friends, a man worthy of loyalty… as are you. You have my loyalty and that of my house for as long as it exists." He curled his hand into a fist and placed it over his heart, then bowed.

Extremely humbled, Jon found himself lost for words. After a struggle, he was eventually able to choke out, "Thank you, Lord Howland, for your immeasurable kindness. I am incredibly grateful for your pledge, and to know that House Reed stands behind me."

"It is the least I can do, in return for all that your family has done for me," Howland assured him.

* * *

That night, Jon couldn't sleep.

He laid on his back on the plush bed, warm furs draped over him with Daenerys' head resting on his chest, and stared up at the stone ceiling. He listened to the fire crackling in the hearth and tried, once again, to reconcile his wayward thoughts.

It seemed like every time he had begun to accept some shocking revelation, the world just couldn't resist throwing another one straight into his path. This time, it was Dany's extraordinary news that she was pregnant.

He was going to be a father.

It was almost too much to take in. But as surprising as it was for him – joyfully so, of course – he knew it was nothing compared to Dany. Until then, she had believed she was barren, and that she would never again be able to bear a child. To discover that she was wrong, or that her barrenness had in some way been reversed… he could only imagine what that must feel like.

She stirred against him, and he gazed down at her admiringly. In sleep, free of the stresses and trials of life, her face softened, increasing her beauty and reminding him how young she really was. They had both been through so much, it was easy to forget that fact sometimes.

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open and focus blearily on his face. He smiled tenderly, the smile he reserved only for her, and stroked a hand through her silver hair.

"Why can't you sleep?" she asked softly.

"Part of me thinks that if I close my eyes, I'll wake up and discover this was all a dream," he whispered. "As backward as that sounds."

She burrowed further into his side. "I know," she said. "Are you afraid?"

"Terrified."

"Me too." She shivered. "What if the witch's curse is not truly broken, and our child is stillborn?"

He kissed the top of her head, breathing in her scent. "I do not think that will happen."

"How can you be sure?"

"I can't. But together, you and I created life where you thought it impossible. I don't think that would have happened only for the child to be stillborn."

She closed her eyes. "How is it you always know what to say to me?"

He chuckled quietly, but didn't respond.

After a moment, he said, "We should… we should call a small council meeting tomorrow."

"To discuss the wedding?"

He hesitated. "Yes. But also… I think they have a right to know the truth about my parents. They should know who their King truly is."

"I thought you wanted to keep it a secret?"

"And I still do, at least from the Northern lords. I'm already asking a lot of them; if they were to learn the truth of my birth, that might be the final straw. But I trust our advisors not to reveal it. I think they should know."

Dany was quiet for a while, so long that Jon wondered if she'd fallen back asleep. But then she said, "Alright. I'll send for them tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, Dany."

* * *

 **I can't remember if the Knight of the Laughing Tree has ever been officially confirmed to be Lyanna, but I know it's a popular theory, and one that I would like to believe is true, so for this I made it true. I also couldn't remember the exact story of the Harrenhal tourney, so what you see in this chapter is what I could remember of it, filling in with my own touches what I couldn't.**

 **Next up: probably Tyrion**


End file.
